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."

CHAPTER TWENTY
TO OZ: DAY TWO

I had entered The Comfortable Man's House from a wet, rainy forest. I exit into a broad reddish desert with low scrub and low hills. Lizard-like creatures dart to and fro in front of me.

With my next step, I am over the mountains, in a dark place. Twenty steps later, I am in a somewhat greener desert, with scattered fastigiate trees twice as tall as a man. According to the sevenhourglass, the daylight here persists for three-and-a-half hours.

I am walking under a night sky. The stars look very different from those at Agatha Farmer's place. Some of them are clearly not stars at all, but some other high-flying, glowing phenomenon. If they are fireflies, they must be huge, for they are very far away.

I stumble in my seven-league boots, and almost fall. I try to take a step, but some force holds me to the ground. It is as if I have stepped in a pool of glue. I struggle to take ordinary steps, but stumble again.

“Careful,” says a small voice. “If you fall, you’ll crush me.” There is irritation in the voice.

I check the dark forest floor, and see a little iridescent blue man among the leaves. He is smaller than my thumb.

“Your magic boots are useless here,” smirks the fairy-creature. “Everyone in the area is required to attend the King’s Banquet. If you don’t go soon--” he points to a fairy palace in the distance. “Your feet will carry you there on their own.”

“What can I expect at the King’s Banquet?” I ask. “I’m a stranger in these parts.”

“Are you? I never would have known,” the blue man sniggers. “The King’s Daughter is to be married, and he is so glad to be rid of her that he has summoned everyone in the Kingdom to a Banquet. A hundred and forty-four thousand guests, at seventy-seven palaces across the Kingdom. That pink one is ours. And the King and his daughter and her suitor will be magically present at each of them. Now I need to be moving, before my feet tear themselves off my ankles. I advise you to do the same.”

The little blue creature scurried away, faster than a mouse.

I point my feet towards the castle, and although the seven-league enchantment is still inoperative, I am able to walk normally in that direction. I am at the flagstones in the courtyard in less than an hour. There is quite a group around me, fairy races of all sizes and descriptions.

“At least we’re bound to get a good meal, aye?” says a fellow right beside me. He is slightly taller than me, and much broader, especially in the belly. His skin is the color of red brick, and he appears to be clothed in nothing but a leather apron. He looks me up and down with cat’s-eyes.

“Never seen an ogre like you in these parts,” he mumbles through yellow tusks. “Four arms, and purple. Where do you hail from?”

“I’m from the human world, actually,” I admit.

“That explains the iron boots,” the ogre replies. “Are you under some sort of enchantment?”

“No, this is my natural form,” I reply. “The human world is pretty diverse these days.”

“Bronk Bloodtooth is my name,” the ogre introduces himself. “I pretty much live by myself; don’t really know anyone in this crowd. I’ll sit with you, if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind,” I reply. “I’m called Strebor, although the witch I used to work for named me Johnny Four-Arms.”

“I’ll call you Johnny, then,” Bronk Bloodtooth laughs. “Johnny from the Mundane World. Just don’t step on anyone’s toes with those iron boots.”

The palace appears to be made of pink granite, studded here and there with rubies. The interior is hung with rich tapestries over shining white alabaster walls. There are at least a hundred polished wooden tables, set with crystal goblets, gold and silver platters, and gold and silver tableware. There are more forks and knives and spoons than I can comfortably identify. On a shining dais in the middle of the room sits a tall, handsome elf-man in kingly robes. On his right hand is another elf, dressed somewhat less extravagantly, and on his left, a beautiful elf princess.

“Welcome, all,” declares the king, and his voice echoes throughout the banquet hall. “Today we celebrate the engagement of my daughter, the Princess Radanta to Prince Eireachdail of the Far Countries.”

Prince Eireachdail now stands.

“O King, I have come from afar to woo your daughter. Not only is she as beautiful as the sun, but she has a wonderful grace in all she says and does. She sings like the nightingale, dances like a flower on the wind, composes such music as has never been heard, and has the cleverness and wit of an angel. She is so far above me that I fear she will never deign to look at me, but if it is the Princess’ will, I will be her consort ever after.”

“Ooh, father, I like this one,” says the Princess.

“Two were never more deserving of one another,” Bronk Bloodtooth sniggers. “Know what I mean?”

The servants now fill the gold and silver platters to overflowing with the most appetizing food, and the guests dig in. My companion does not partake, but merely sips from his wine glass.

“I have a very restricted diet,” explains Bronk Bloodtooth. “You never know what they are serving at these fairy feasts.”

I discreetly swipe some of the Ointment of True Sight I received at the Comfortable Man’s house across my eyelids. The scene changes.

We are still in a grand palace, but the walls are plain grey stone. The tapestries are tattered and mildewed. The tables are the same rough stone, the plates and tableware are wooden, and the food is a slop of overcooked and unidentifiable vegetables. My companion is unchanged, but many of the fairies seated throughout the hall are completely altered in appearance. Their faces are more monkey-like, their bodies more ill-formed. The magic which projected the images of the royal trio is no longer visible. My other senses are affected as well. Voices that were once musical are now only growls and hisses; the appetizing perfume of the meal is replaced with the scent of rot. The goblets of wine are crude wooden cups of water.

I suddenly lose my appetite.

The ointment wears off by the time of the entertainment. I can only imagine what the chamber music sounds like without glamour.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
TO OZ: DAY THREE

The seven-hour glass tells me that it has been twenty-eight hours since I left the home of the Comfortable Man. It is pre-dawn as we leave the King’s Banquet.

“It is a day’s journey home for me,” laments Bronk Bloodtooth.

“I have much farther to go,” I tell him. “But I can afford a small detour. “Can I give you a lift?” I indicate my seven-league boots.

“I’ve never traveled by magicked iron,” says Bronk. “I’m not sure I want to now.”

“Which direction is home?” I ask.

Bronk rolls his eyes, and points. As I am in my Branx form, it is easy to heft the massive ogre onto my shoulder. I take one step in the right direction.

Bronk looks around, getting his bearings. “We’re less than a tenth of a league from my glen,” he says, indicating another direction. We head off. It will take about fifteen minutes to get there.

“I’m part of the King’s Guard,” Bronk boasts. “Of course, there was no need for us during the Banquet. The King’s magicians not only placed a spell compelling everyone the entire country to attend, but also laid a geas of peace on everyone. If there were any foreign invaders within our borders, they attended the Banquet as well.” He chuckled gurglingly.
We are in a broad meadow at the top of a high hill, overlooking a broad valley full of sheep and cattle. Even from this distance the pungent scent of fresh manure wafts up through the air.

“My herds,” explains Bronk Bloodtooth. “Us ogres are pure meat-eaters.”

There is a large pot full of boiling meat hanging over a low fire. Bronk tosses a couple of sticks into the dying embers..

“Couldn’t eat that vegetable slop at the Banquet,” Bronk grouses, hefting a large portion of much-boiled meat onto a stone plate. “I noticed you didn’t partake much, either. Join me?”

The meat seems to be something like beef, highly salted. It is not too bad, and being hungry makes it all the more palatable.

“I do prefer my meat roasted,” says Bronk, prepping a massive rotating grill, and starting another fire. “But I always keep a pot boiling, too.” The glade is full of stacks of wood, well-used cooking utensils, a great oven, the large pot, a rough barbecue setup, and the grill. A small, nearby waterfall provides all the water one could need. There are high stone tables, but no chairs. All in all, it looks like a huge, outdoor kitchen. There is no house or cottage, I don’t know where or if the ogre sleeps.

“Ordinarily, I would go down and grab a steer, or a couple of sheep,” says Bronk. “But since there is meat so near a hand…” He grabs my head, and bashes it against a tree. “The sun is up now, and the geas against violence has expired.”

I have trained on Tharn in the Martial Arts by Sensei, but I admit I am a poor student. I try to recall his advice.

“The pain of losing your head is the same, whether you die in a blaze of glory, or whether your enemy cuts off your head when you aren’t looking.”

This is unhelpful. I am struggling with an opponent who intends to roast me for second breakfast.

“As a master of the martial arts, I do not fight in order to win or lose. I do not think of strength or weakness. I do not advance or retreat a step. The enemy does not see me. I do not see the enemy.” -- The Way of the Sohei

Bronk Bloodtooth is strangling me. I am past the point of seeing spots. My vision is starting to cloud.

“You are a tough one,” admits the ogre. “I’m really working up an appetite.”

It occurs to me that the ogre must always be thinking about his next meal. He has just finished breakfast, and is already preparing for his next meal. The world goes black.

I awaken to find Bronk Bloodtooth high up in one of the trees. I have a good view, as I am lying on my back. He is wrapped in thick branches, struggling.

There is a small noise by my left ear. It is Modesty, the little magical pixie I summoned at Agatha’s cottage.

“You did this?” I ask.

“I said, ‘Fly, you fool,’” repeats the pixie.

I pull myself upright, and in a single step I am seven leagues away.

o o o

I am hungry. I stop in the middle of another shady glen to eat some of the never-ending bread and cheese.

“Modesty?” I call into the air. “Have you been following me all this time?”

There is nothing but silence.

I want to change back into human form, but that requires night-time, a bed, and a fire. The only thing to do is push on.

The seven-hour glass marks another seven hours before I find night-time again. It is a small, sandy beach, and I find enough driftwood to build a fire. I toss in my coat, and find a comfortable spot to sleep under my Extensible Stragulum.

By morning, the fire has burned out, and my patchwork coat is lying next to my head. I put it on, and metamorphose into my four-armed human form.

There is a flash of white out in the water.

The sun- one of Faeryland’s many suns- is just rising. The water glistens bright silver and blue. There is a woman not too far from shore, bathing. At the moment, the water is up to her neck, and she is washing her hair. She turns and locks eyes with me, and begins walking up to the beach. She is incredibly attractive, even beautiful. I find it hard to tear my eyes away. I reach for Mr. Quando’s eye-salve, and attempt to surreptitiously wipe it on my eyes. She is still beautiful, but now no more than a mundane super-model.

She dons a loose robe hanging from a low bush, and comes over to speak to me.

“You must speak the truth, or I will know,” she says. “Who are you, and from where do you hail?”

“I am called Four-Armed Johnny, and most recently, I come from an Ogre’s glen, from which I barely escaped with my life.”

“Keep talking,” she says. It is not merely a command, but some sort of spell.

“Originally, I come from the human world,” I say. “But I have journeyed long, and seen many places. It sometimes seems to me that I have lived many lives as well. Should I continue with my history?”

“It is enough,” says the beautiful woman. “I give you neither my name nor my history, but you will come with me, and I will provide you food and rest for the day.”

This, too, is a spell of some kind, and I am compelled to follow her.

“May I call you Mystery?” I ask.

“I will give you neither my name nor my history, but you may call me what you like,” she replies.

As we walk, she comments on our surroundings. “How beautiful the trees”, “How fragrant the scent of the flowers”, “How sweetly sing the birds”. The eye-salve protects me from glamour, and yet it seems that she is almost calling our surroundings into existence around us. At last we come to a sprawling greenward, at the center of which is a single-storied estate. I catch the occasional glimpse of bustling servant-women, dressed in deep red. Beside a cobblestone path, just before the entrance to the house, stand a large bed with canopies of gold. A very old, dried and wizened man lies there. His breath comes in wheezes, punctuated by coughs.

“Hello, husband,” says the mystery woman tenderly. “It will not be long, now, I am sure.” She kisses him. The wheezing worsens. “Do not fear, I will find another after you are gone. Enjoy the golden sunlight. I will now show this young man our home, and all it possesses.”

“I am not so young as I appear,” I say.

“You appear to be some twelve centuries old,” she replies. “Is that not correct? But to one such as I, that is but a moment. This husband has attended me for a longer time, but is now old and worn out. Come with me, and let me show you how we have lived.”

There are perhaps a hundred rooms within the estate. I lose count quickly. The corridors twist and turn. There are elegant tapestries, chests of gold and precious stones, rooms with luxurious couches and thrones, several ornamented bedrooms, a grand kitchen and well-stocked larder. It is all completely real. As the eye-salve begins to wear off, I see that glamours have been placed on everything to make it appear even more rich and elegant and beautiful. There must be very few of the red-clad servants, as I see the same half-dozen over and over as we tour the house.

At last we come to a small wood-paneled chamber. A golden box sits on a silver table. There is nothing else here.

“Here is my greatest treasure,” she tells me, “Whose like is not to be found in the whole world. It is a precious gold ring; when you marry me, I will give you this ring as a marriage-gift, and it will make you the happiest of mortal men. But in order that our love may last forever, you must give me for the ring three drops of blood from the little finger of your left hand.”

This is no spell or command, but a cold shiver runs through me, and the hair on my arms stand up.

“No mortal is able to entirely understand the power of this ring,” she continues, “Because no one can thoroughly understand the signs engraven upon it. But even with my half-knowledge, I can teach you to work wonders.” She pauses, waiting for some response.

“This is a grand offer,” I reply. “I, like you, have been married before, and I take these things seriously. Let me stay here for a day before I give my answer.”

“Take as long as you like,” she replies. “Stay here as my guest for days, or weeks, or years. I have the patience of immortality. But know that I will be a widow again by next morning’s light, and free to marry again.”

There is a tapping on the door, and one of the red-dressed maids announces that luncheon is ready.

The meal is small but filling: soup and salad, sandwiches, and some sort of sharp, tangy golden juice. There is something familiar about this house and situation, but I cannot put my finger on it. I read a lot of fairy-tales when I was younger, and this reminds me of several of them.

We stroll the spacious grounds, and I am repeatedly reminded that if and when we marry, all this will belong to me. I ask if she travels, and she replies that she has seen much of Faeryland, as well as the mortal realm. She describes some of the places she has moved her grounds and estate, but she must always dwell by water, and there must be a moon in the sky at night.

Another of the maids finds us, and informs us that supper will soon be served. My mystery woman kisses me before we return to the house, and I almost agree to marry her right there.

Almost. But I have remembered what fairy-tale I am ensconced in.

On the way back to the house I explain that I require a fire before I retire to bed. During dinner, the sun sets, and I transform. My host starts in surprise.

“This is my true form,” I explain. “Not an ogre or troll, but a Branx Warrior from the non-magical realms. I need the fire each night to renew the enchantment on my cloak.”

“For a moment, I thought you were a demon,” she gasps. “But yes, I am familiar with such cloaks of transformation as you wear. We will certainly accommodate you.”

Later, I leave my mystery woman, and one of the red-cloaked servant-girls leads me to a private room. There is a luxurious bed, a roaring fire, and torches on the walls which burn with a blue-green flame. I get a good night's sleep, bathe in a tub of warm water in the bedroom, retrieve my cloak, and transform back into my Four-Armed Johnny form.

“My husband has passed away in the night,” says my host over an al fresco breakfast. The gold-canopied bed has been taken away. “We are free to marry at your discretion.”

“You are kind and generous, and I have enjoyed my stay here,” I reply. “But you are the Hoellen-Maedchen, the Witch-Maiden, and I cannot remain with you forever.” There is a shiver of release, as though I have been under a spell. “I will continue my journey as I have planned, and I am sure you can find another husband soon. My condolences on the passing of your late husband. But his soul is always with you, is it not?”

The Witch-Maiden smiles. “Another of my prized possessions. My hospitality has not changed. You may continue to stay as long as you like, and enjoy the same luxuries and pleasures. There are more you have not yet partaken of. Perhaps you will change your mind.”

“I thank you, but I think not,” I reply. “Allow me a dramatic exit.” I get my bearings with the Oz-compass, take a step-- and I am seven leagues away from the Hoellen-Maedchen.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
TO OZ: DAY FIVE

I do not often pass through cities, but today, I stop in the middle of one.

My seven-hour-glass tells me I have been travelling for seventeen-and-a-half hours. It is the middle of the day here, but I have walked long enough.

The buildings are sturdy, built of some sort of cement or concrete, decorated with rough stone. None is more than three stories high. The streets are broad, as wide as a four-lane highway, with high curbs, and grated storm drains. The streets are bustling with a wider variety of faerie-folk that I have ever seen together. I quickly spy some as small as eighteen inches, others nine feet tall. One uniformed nine-footer approaches me. He has three eyes and a bird’s beak.

“Where did you come from?” he asks.

I gesture at my shoes. “Seven-league boots,” I explain. “Although I would like to rest. I’ve been walking all day.”

“Well, if you’re from that far away, I doubt you have any of the local coinage,” says the officer.

“I have picked up a little silver and gold,” I offer.

“Not worth much here,” says the officer. “Thrallcoin is the medium of exchange in the City of Anaxagora. You might want to move on, or you might be able to earn a day’s wages. No promises, though.”

“What sort of work is it?” I ask. “I may want to move on, if it’s hard labor. I’m pretty tired. Tired enough to sleep in any woods nearby.”

“‘Nearby’ is an odd thing for one wearing seven-league boots to say,” says the officer. “But a quick trip to the city center might have you sorted out without too much trouble. Come with me.”

I follow the brute to a large central plaza, where eight roads intersect. We take the shortest one, which quickly dead-ends at a small cottage, no larger than Agatha’s.

Human-looking, but still definitely Faery, the inhabitant of the cottage answered the door. She extended her hand graciously.

“I am Anaxagora,” she purrs. “Welcome to my City.”

I am treated to what is, to all appearances, a very English tea service. Cakes, small sandwiches, and cups of some fragrant, delicious hot beverage that is almost, but not quite, entirely unlike tea.

“My Constable has brought you here because you are destitute, and seek to earn a day’s worth of Thrallcoin. This will allow you to stay in a room in one of our inns, and allow you to buy a day’s worth of meals. The alternative is walking your seven-league boots, and camping in some field somewhere. The favor I ask for you in return is simple: allow me to copy you.”

“I am not sure what you mean,” I say, in the middle of appreciating a particularly delicious scone.

She gestures widely. “All the inhabitants of my City are my creations. I have the magical ability to create a Thrall, one once each day. Or to destroy one Thrall, once each day. They are all more-or-less independent, with one level or another of free will, but all of them love me, and happily and graciously serve me. Most have some magical power of their own. I have created thousands over the years, from my Constable, to the little birds that bring me news of visitors to my City. I am always grateful to meet new people, because it allows the possibility of creating someone new to inhabit my little City, someone I had not conceived from my own imagination. However, I do not wish to create a duplicate of you without your permission.”

“But you could,” I intuit. “Whether I agreed or not.”

“Yes, but I rather object to that on personal moral grounds. Besides, if you will share with me your characteristics and abilities, I can more exactly replicate you.”

“And for my agreement, you would allow me a comfortable stay in your city for a single day.”

“That is correct.”

“And you have already used your power early this morning, so would like me to stay another day so that you can replicate me tomorrow.”

“You are clever,” Anaxagora laughs. “A wonderful characteristic. I shall include it in your Thrall-twin.”

“Clever enough to be suspicious of your offer,” I reply. “I am unfamiliar with how your magic works, and I have had sufficient experience with enchantment to know there are often unpleasant side-effects. We do not know one another, and I have no reason to trust you at your word.”

“Perhaps you could talk to my Thralls? They would affirm that I speak the truth, and have no ulterior motive.”

“I am sure they would,” I reply. “But how could I be sure they have my best interests at heart, when they are so devoted to you?”

“She’s telling the truth,” says Modesty. She has appeared among the sandwich plates in a sprinkle of golden glitter. “I checked with the aldermen of a nearby hamlet, and they’ve heard of Anaxagora. She’s been here over a century, Her magic is harmless. Her Thralls cannot even survive very far from this city. I would let her copy me.”

“Oh, no, I have enough pixies,” says Anaxagora. “You can find them all over Faeryland.’

Modesty stuck out her tongue. “You ought to let him stay in town for two days,” says Modesty. He’s got another form. You could copy that one, too.”

I sigh at Modesty’s indiscrete garrulousness. I stand, taking off the patchwork coat.

Anaxagora’s eyes lit up. “Oh, my,” she said. “I’ve made four-armed men before, but I’ve never seen a creature like this.”

“I have no real magical abilities,” I explain. “This is my true form: the disguise magic is in the coat. And I am equally strong, and equally intelligent, in either form. The charm does have to be renewed regularly by tossing the coat into a fire as I sleep; that is why I need a room with a fireplace.”

“Would you stay two days?” Anaxagora begs. “If not, will you allow me to copy your true form, rather than your more human one?”

“Go ahead, take a rest,” says Modesty. “Accept her hospitality for a couple of days. I’m tired of flying after you day after day anyway.”

“I didn’t ask you to,” I remind the pixie.

“And where would you be if I hadn’t?” She vanishes with a pop, and another flash of golden glitter.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
TO OZ: DAY EIGHT

The elven mansion is very nearly a palace. It lies on several acres of beautiful, wooded land.

The inhabitants introduce themselves as the Cluhurach clan: four grandparents, six younger couples, and a dozen little elflings. Their hair is shaded from golden blond to deep red, their eyes a uniform, startling sky-blue. They are tall and slender, so tall that the men can nearly look me in the eye, even in my night-time Branx form. They seem happy to receive me, and feast me generously. I reveal my simple bread-and-cheese, and the young ones were endlessly entertained by the way it renews itself over and over again. As the night draws on, and the full green moon rises in the sky, they begin to sing for my entertainment, and both adults and children prove their skill with a variety of wind and string instruments.

I am sated and sleepy, and have to beg the leave of my hosts to retire to the ornate bedroom they have provided. I toss my coat into the roaring fire in the great stone fireplace, and fall between the softest, sweetest mattress and comforter I had ever had the pleasure of sleeping in.

The sun is shining in my window, the day already well along, when I awake in the morning. Oddly, my patchwork coat still lies in the fire. I pull it out, unsinged, and slip it on. There is no transformation. My hands remain mauve, clawed, and huge.

I reach into my knapsack and take out the Comfortable Man’s eye-salve. My luxurious room transforms into a dirt-walled dugout, my bed a mat of straw, the fire and fireplace shallow hollow in a blank dirt wall.

I duck through the door-less dirt archway, and into the main part of the brugh. It is a low, dirty, underground cellar, the dirt walls festooned with rootlings and rough stones. Two dozen noseless, monkey-like creatures of various sizes lay still, sleeping on the floor. Their fur is mottled and filthy, it might have once been lighter shades of brown. The leavings of our evening meal-- a cold soup of unboiled roots-- lie on a rough table.

I curse my gullibility. I should have used the ointment earlier.

Then I think: these creatures have probably lived in glamour for so long they were unaware of their true living conditions. The magical meal of bread and cheese from the night before has no doubt been the children’s first true decent meal in some time.

I leave the brugh, stepping into the bright sunlight. The woodlands of the night before reveal themselves to be scruffy, bleak wilderness. The eldritch glamour extended far. I set the seven-hourglass, orient the green Oz-compass, and step-- far away.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
TO OZ: DAY NINE

I see a blue mountain in the distance. It persists as I stride towards it.

Agatha Farmer and I estimated once that at a brisk walking pace, my seven-league boots move me at a virtual speed of around a hundred thousand miles per hour. This mountain must be terribly far away, as I have been walking towards it for an hour, and it seems no closer. It must also be immensely tall.

I now see that it is not a mountain at all, but an entire planet. There is an immense crater up ahead, and the top half of a blue-and-green-and-white planet rises up out of it.

It appears to be approximately the size of Earth, as best as I can estimate. It must tower some four or five thousand miles above the flatlands. A tiny sun shines high in the sky above it, motionless.

Up close, the planet dominates the sky. I see patterns of fields and cities through the clouds. Standing near the edge of the crater, gravity behaves strangely. I feel as though I am standing on a steep incline, although my eyes tell me the land is as flat as Kansas. Winds whip around me. It is not possible for me to step across the chasm onto the strange world spinning gently ahead of me. There is a protective enchantment on my boots; the chasm must be more than seven leagues wide.

The only choice is to go around. It should be no more than a few minutes detour, but I am used to walking in straight lines, not curves.

I pass one of the great icy poles. I have moved somewhat further away from the planet, in order to ameliorate the effects of the gravity and the winds. The Oz-compass tells me that I am significantly off-course; but as it still insists I walk through the planet towards my destination, I have little choice.

I step into a small, bustling village, stopping beside a blacksmith’s shop. On second view, I see that this is a coppersmith. Many Faeries do not like to work with iron.

“Can you tell me what this great blue world is?” I ask the proprietor. Were he half his size, I would call him a dwarf.

The smith looks up. “The people there call it Atalanta. A race of reclusive, lion-headed goblin folk. They built this world and retired to it ages ago. No one comes or goes unless they can fly. Few choose to travel there anyway. The occasional curious magician.”

“And your people live so close by? Do the winds bother you?”

“Why should we move?” answers the Faery. “We were here first. We’ve dug in, and intend to stay.”

“Do you have much custom… are there other towns nearby?” I ask.

“There are a few, within a hundred thousand strides. And there are inns along the roads. Are you looking for a place to stay?”

“An inn within a day’s journey, perhaps?” A number of roads trail off from the little village, all leading away from Atalanta.

“There are no days or nights here, under that bright sun. Atalanta casts no shadow. But the nearest is that way.” The coppersmith points towards one of them, and turns back to his work.

If I pay careful attention, I can see the landscape flash by as I take a seven-league step. I catch a glimpse of an inn not far back. It proves to be within walking distance.

Some negotiation with the walnut-faced innkeepers, and we agree that a leftover Thrallcoin will serve for seven hours rest, a meal before bed, and breakfast after. I believe I am being taken advantage of. I am pretty sure the Thrallcoin is nearly pure gold.

The others at the little inn-- it does not even have a name-- seem mostly shopmen. I have little fear for my safety here, despite the reputation of small, lonely inns in fairytales. Also, I have not encountered night since the elven brugh, so I am still in my Branx form. I appear more intimidating than I am, but it is some protection.

Thick black curtains cover the windows in my room, but it is not night, and there is no fire. The bed is a little too small for me, but I manage, and it is more comfortable than sleeping in the open.

The walnut-faced innkeepers have prepared a huge breakfast for their lodgers, and seem to expect me to eat half of it. Perhaps I have not been overcharged after all.

In a short time, I have finished my half-circuit of the planet Atalanta, and am re-oriented with the Oz-compass. I had begun to fear that I had already passed by destination, but this strange world of Atalanta is a landmark I would not have forgotten.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
TO OZ: DAY TEN

I am standing in a grassy field amid a flock of miniature sheep.

I take a step.

I have stepped into darkness. The ground is soft and squishy. I smell a strong vapor of sulphur. Swamp gas.

I take a step.

It is still night. I am in a wood next to a clearing swarming with gnat-sized fairies.

I take a step.

It is still night. Night-goblins with glowing red eyes prowl around igloo-shaped stone huts.

I take a quick step.

It is still night. I see the lights of a small town not far away.

To my left, the sun has set behind a range of tall mountains.

To my right, a great silver moon sheds its moonlight through the immense trees of a distant forest.

I am near what looks like an abandoned hobo encampment. A perfect place to spend the night. I gather some brush and loose branches, and kindle a fire. I toss in my cloak, and settle down for a meal of magical bread and cheese, then fall asleep under the feathery Extensible Stragulum as the fire dies.

I am awakened by the sound of bells. I peek out from beneath my coverlet. The silver moon is high in the sky, almost directly over my head. A silvery river has appeared where there was no river before. A half-dozen women are dancing in the moonlight by the river. Their skin is white as the moonlight, white as milk, white as bone. Their diaphanous robes and veils do little to hide their bright silhouettes. The bells I thought I heard are their singing.

A dark bird flies down from the dark sky, and lands before the women. It morphs into a crooked black shadow of a man, and speaks to the tallest.

“I come again to beg your hand, Moon-Daughter.” The creaking voice carries over the flatlands between us. The creature is warped and twisted like the stump of a black tree; it may have more than two arms or two legs.

“O, Darkling Lord Manikin,” says the Moon-Daughter, “Your red eyes frighten me.”

I see two flashing red eyes in the Manikin’s face. “Princess, you need not fear the Fire of Love that burns in my eyes. I have brought you treasures that burn as red.” Red rubies drop from his hands, sparkling in the silver moonlight. They form little piles around the Manikin’s feet. “Let me cross the river to bring them to you.”

I see now that the silvery river separates the group of women from the crooked little man.

“O, no Darkling Lord Manikin,” says the Moon-Daughter, “See, someone watches us.” She points in my direction.

I am ready to run, but the Manikin’s nose is up against mine in a minute. His face is distorted and grotesque, and up close I can see his skin is as red as blood. His eyes shine like red candle flames. His breath could roast a goat.

“Who are you?” asks the Manikin gruffly. “What are you? What did you see?”

“I don’t know what I see,” I tell him honestly.

“Tell me,” he commands.

“I see a silvery river. A tall white princess, attended by five white ladies-in-waiting on the other side. A night-crow that transformed into a blood-red dwarf. I see it, but don’t know what it means.”

“You see nothing,” the Manikin croaks, laughing. “Go back to sleep. Do not be here at the next full moon.”

The twisted little dwarf can be certain of that.

o o o

The moon has barely touched the tip of the mountain range when I awaken again.

“Something has built a fire here,” says a voice like a can-opener.

There are dark shapes shambling about. I count three near me; there may be more. They seem between twelve and fifteen feet tall, but it is hard to tell, lying on the ground.

“Hush,” says another of the shapes. “There is a little bird nesting here.” He gestures towards my Stragulum.

“What kind of bird builds a fire?”

“A fire-bird?”

Grunting.

“Let’s finish our meals, and leave the poor bird alone.”

The shapes retire to the opposite end of the clearing. There is a horrible sound of crushing and snapping and grinding. I lie still until all is silent, then fall into a fitful sleep.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
TO OZ: DAY ELEVEN
INVISIBLE HOUSES

Dawn is dawning. My seven-hour glass has run out; I have slept more than seven hours on the cold ground. There are three massive boulders on the other side of the encampment that were not there before. I can almost make out the outline of arms and legs and faces. Gravel surrounds the sleeping stone-trolls like cracker-crumbs.

There is a broken trolltooth next to my iron-soled seven-league boots. There is a long scratch on one boot. I hope they will still work properly.

I don my coat, and transform back into my four-armed human form for the first time since the City of Anaxagora. I breakfast on bread and cheese. By morning light, I see there is fruit on some of the trees nearby, but faery-fruit can be an adventure unto itself. I kick apart the fire to make sure it is well and truly extinguished, orient myself with the green Oz-compass, and set out walking again.

By mid-day I come to a sandy beach. I am unable to step across the water. This is no mere lake; it is more than seven leagues to land. The enchantment on the seven-league boots prevents me from stepping into the middle of the sea and drowning. I sit on a rock and have a mid-day meal of more bread and cheese.

Eight hundred steps allow me to circumnavigate the waters, judging by the sun. The Oz-compass points steadily away from land, over the sea as I circle. Obviously, I need to find a way to cross. On my second circuit, I spy a cobblestone path leading to a little cottage near the sea-shore, with a picket fence, a pleasant lawn and a neat garden. I approach it slowly, and notice that there is no door.

“Hello?” I call from the doorstep.

“Come in, stranger, and refresh yourself,” a friendly woman’s voice calls out.

There is a table just within the doorway set with plates and bowls and silverware. A large glass bowl sits in the center of the table, filled with peaches. An unusual fruity fragrance fills the room. I assume it is the peaches.

“Join us,” says the woman’s voice. “Only do not eat the dama-fruit unless you wish to be rendered invisible as we are.”

“I thought the invisible people lived underground,” I remark.

Platters full of food are now drifting towards the table at different heights. I perceive there must be at least five people in this home.

“So you have heard of the Valley of Voe?” asks a male voice. “We emigrated from there to the surface world. But we brought a pair of dama-bushes with us.

Chairs are now being moved up to the table. I count six-- then there is a high-chair for a baby. One of the chairs pulls back.

“Sit here, please,” says the woman’s voice. After I sit, there is a great scrambling, and the invisible family fills the rest of the chairs. Dama-fruit flies up into the air, and vanishes into invisible mouths.

“We don’t stand on ceremony here,” says the invisible man. “Eat, please, to your hearts content.” The platters are filled with all manner of vegetable dishes and fresh fruit and bread. There is a tureen of soup on the table, but not meat of any kind.

“I am traveling to the Emerald City,” I explain. “As you are from an adjacent country, I imagine you might know the way.”

“You must cross the Nonestic Ocean,” says the invisible man. “Not far from here, to the west, is a village of Fisherman. If you arrive early enough, they will take you with them, although you will have to earn your keep. I do not know of any other way to get out onto the Ocean. Whether or not they will take you across to the Delkapan Continent-- well, you will have to ask them. Then you will have to cross the Deadly Desert which surrounds the land, where no living thing can survive. And then you will need to find the Land of Oz itself-- a difficult task, for it was enchanted into invisibility many years ago.”

“I have an eye-salve which allows me to see through glamours,” I explain.

There is gentle laughing from the invisible people.

“This enchantment of invisibility is not a glamour,” the invisible man says. “It is as robust as our own. Try your enchanted eye-salve, and see if you can see us.”

I take out the Comfortable Man’s gift, and discover that the invisible family is correct. There is no glamour over this strange household.

“I suppose I should go see the Fisherman’s Village in the morning,” I say. “Is there an inn or boarding house within a day’s travel?” I explain my particular needs.

“On the other side of the Fisherman’s Village,” the invisible man explains, “Is a Wizard’s House for travelers. It will open to a traveler for a single night’s stay.” He gives me directions, and a good description of the house.

As a favor to the invisible family, I watch the children in the afternoon while the parents attend to some errand. One of their favorite activities is to play in a shallow tub of water. They are as invisible in the water as in air, and when they splash one another, the water becomes invisible when it touches them. There is an occasional gauzy outline as the water fades in and out of visibility, however; I discern that these children are pre-teens, perhaps ten or eleven years old. Their voices are quite high-pitched, I had thought them much younger.

The children go into their rooms to change, and dump a pile of soggy clothing onto the back porch. It seems that their clothing becomes invisible when they put it on, and re-appears when they take it off. I wring the damp clothes, and hang them on a clothesline in back of the house.

As the sun begins to set, I take a step along the road. The Fisherman’s Village flashes by, and I catch a glimpse of the Wizard’s House. I walk back in the normal way for a few minutes.

The Wizard’s House is a wooden cottage, painted bright bright yellow, with a red roof and blue trim, carved with mystic sigils. There is a bright green door in a red frame, which opens easily. I call, but there is no one home. An open door leads to a small bedroom. When I enter, the fireplace blazes to life. Exiting the bedroom again, I discover that a dining table and chair have appeared in the main room, with a single place setting. A meal of savory pancakes, sausages and herbs is steaming on the table. It is like being back in the house of invisible people, but there really is no one here.

As the sun sets, I morph into my Branx form, remove my coat, and toss it into the fire. While I was eating, a comfortable chair and small bookcase have appeared beside the fireplace. I choose a small booklet which explains the history and lore of Wizard’s Houses. They are a particular enchantment created specifically for travelers where there are no inns. They exist scattered throughout Faeryland. This is evidently a very fine one; some are only tents or shacks, while some project only the illusion of comfort, and those who leave are as hungry and tired in the morning as when they came.

There are also fourteen books about the Land of Oz, written in English from the early 2Oth century. I skim them to refresh my memory; there are some annotations; it seems that there are a number of inaccuracies in the books, and some characters and stories are made up out of whole cloth.

Unfortunately, I am too tired to study my ultimate destination carefully. I retire to the comfortable bed.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
TO OZ: DAY TWELVE
THE FISHERMAN’S VILLAGE

I awaken before sunrise, and force myself out of bed. My coat of transformation is patiently waiting for me. The Wizard’s House provides me with a breakfast of scrambled eggs, porridge, and fruit juice. As I still leave the house, the sun is still below the horizon. I close the bright green door, and it locks itself behind me.

I attempt to triangulate on the Fisherman’s Village with my seven-league boots. In theory, I should be able to go any distance less than seven leagues, in any direction, in just two steps. I settle on landing an hour’s walk from the village, and go the rest of the way the slow way. When I arrive, dawn is just beginning to break above the horizon.

The inhabitants of the Fisherman’s Village have heads of fish: tuna, octopi, lobsters and other shell-fish. It is the magical contamination of their profession. I speak to the dock-master, a heavy-set man with a whale’s head. He recommends me to a Captain Haddockseyes. I offer my services. I ask no remuneration, except to be delivered to the continent. Captain Haddockseyes refuses passage; I explain I only need to get within seven leagues of Delkapan, and he agrees-- but I must work a full day.

It is exhausting work, although in my human form I still retain my Branx constitution. I am shifted from station to station, being taught to trim the sails, trim the lights, learning to haul in nets and catches, playing cabin boy to Captain Haddockseyes, learning to avoid the boom. We see mermaids; the crew lingers for a while as Captain Haddockseyes negotiates with them. We carefully pull up our nets, and move to different waters. Our catches improve in the waters the mermaids sent us to. One of the crew points out a distant sea serpent to me. It looks something like a giant, hammer-headed plesiosaur. Captain Haddockseyes has let the crew know they will be sailing towards the Delkapan continent at the end of the day. With the sun low in the sky, we sail north. My iron boots will not let me take a step-- until they will. I am now standing on a broad beach of fine white sand.

I overnight on the beach, eating magical bread and cheese, and a fish Captain Haddockeyes’ crew has cooked for me. It is a fish like no other I have ever seen: it is entirely boneless, solid white meat. The crispy skin has the taste of caramel.

The beach seems entirely devoid of wood, or even dried seaweed, so I am forced to forego a fire. I will make the final leg to Oz in my Branx form.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
TO OZ: DAY THIRTEEN
THE CONTINENT

The Nonestic Ocean lies to the South, and a golden sun rises in the East. The Oz-compass points North.

I take a step.

I am in a deep, shadowy crevasse. The sky is a dark blue overhead. A small wood of weird trees surround me: I realize that they are growing with their roots in the air. To my left is a strange village, with upside-down houses resting on their chimneys, and men and women walking on their hands. The wear shoes on their hands and gloves on their ape-like feet.

I take a step.

I am out of the crevasse. My ears pop from the sudden change in height. I am standing on the shore of an immense river running North and South as far as I can see in both directions. It is an ugly brown color, and froths with a sickeningly sweet smell. The trees in the forest nearby are as strange as the land I have just come from: fruit-trees bearing all manner of pastries, cakes, and candies, and immense trees bearing clothing and furniture on their branches. I see no residents of this strange land about.

I take a step.

I have followed the frothing brown river North, but the forest has vanished. What first appears to be a rust-colored mountain is in fact a rusted iron giant, lying face-down in the barren wilderness.

I take a step.

I am overlooking a massive valley, dizzying in extent. The frothing brown river runs down into and through the valley. The food-trees and furniture-trees have reappeared, as well as trees bearing plates of fine porcelain, silverware and jewelry: gold and silver necklaces and bracelets set with gemstones of every color. Above the towns laid out in the valley, men and women ride through the air on creatures resembling storks. Either the storks are very large, or the people are fairy-sized.

I take a step.

I am on the other side of the valley. The forest is thick here, sides of beef and legs of pork and ham hang from the trees. An immense fairy palace of pure white marble rises out of the forest in the distance. It is entwined with running creepers of blue roses.

I take a step.

I am in a meadow of ordinary grass, stretching to the horizon. It is still morning; the sun has scarcely moved.

I try to take a step, but the shoes will not allow it. I must be less than seven leagues from the Deadly Desert. I will need to make progress the slow way.

The needle of the Oz-compass is darting across an arc of some thirty degrees or more, for the Land of Oz lies spread in the near distance ahead of me. I continue in what I hope is the straightest direction possible. The sun has moved to the Western sky by the time I reach the Desert.

It is clearly my destination. The lime-green meadow grass yellows, wilts, and blackens as it approaches the Desert. The sands give off a foul, yellowish-brown fumes, which choke like sulfuric acid when I approach too closely. From the reaction of my seven-league boots, the Deadly Desert is more than seven leagues wide. I take a few paces to the East and West, hoping the sands will become narrower, but I have no such luck. Technically, as I am outside the South of Oz, this is the Great Sandy Waste, as I was reminded by the collection in the Wizard’s House.

I have been mulling how to follow the injunction, LET STREBOR GO TO THE CITY OF EMERALDS for weeks. I not only need to get into Oz, but to the center of the country, to the Emerald City itself. Passing over the Deadly Desert is the one thing that has stumped me. Agatha Farmer did not provide me with a flying carpet or tornado seeds. But I did get an idea from the other night’s perusal of the Oz books.

I turn my back on the Deadly Desert, look up to the sky, and cry in my best incantor’s voice:
“Johnny Dooit, come to me.
I need you bad as bad can be.”

Nothing happens for a long time.

The sun sets.

I prepare to spend the night in the field, again. Although the meadow is very green, it looks like it would burn well, so I forego a fire again tonight. I will spend some time tomorrow investigating further. Perhaps if I circumnavigate the Land of Oz, I will find a narrower region of Desert. There are also said to be a few underground tunnels that lead under the desert. I seem to remember one off a cove or pool in one of the stories.

I may have to make my way back to the Wizard’s House somehow, and do some more intense studying.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
TO OZ: DAY FOURTEEN
JOHNNY DOOIT DOES IT AGAIN

I am awakened before sunrise by a cheery little voice.

"Well, here I am. But you shouldn't say you need me bad, because I'm always, always, good."

I open my eyes to see a little man, perhaps a meter-and-a-half tall, sitting on a big copper chest, puffing smoke from a long pipe. His hair and whiskers are long and white; and braided into ropes that wind around his waist. He wears a leather apron that reaches from his chin to his feet, and it is worn and soiled and weathered, as if it has been used for a very long time. His nose is broad and stuck up, his eyes are a twinkling and merry blue. The skin on his hands and arms looks as hard and tough and used to work as the leather in his apron. He has two small, understated horns growing just below his receding hairline on either side.

It is Johnny Dooit.



“I expect you are probably wondering why I called,” I say.

“You want something built. Why else does anyone call Johnny Dooit? Let’s not waste time with pleasantries. What do you need from me?”

“You once created a sand-boat, to cross the Deadly Desert into Oz,” I explain. “I wonder if you could do so again.”

“I remember that,” says Johnny. “I did that for love-- or rather, under the enchantment of the Love Magnet. Horrible thing. I would have to charge you the going rate, though.”

“I don’t have much,” I explain. “I’ve spent what little gold I had. I have a few gifts from my mentor, and a few from the Comfortable Man.” I search through my backpack. “I have a tinder box, a magical onion of cheese and a half-a-loaf-- although the enchantment of ever-renewing is bound to run out soon-- an ordinary knife, an enchanted compass that always points towards the Land of Oz, my feathered Extensible Stragulum, ointment of true sight, a seven-hour-glass, an formerly ever-filled coin-purse, and an ordinary satchel. My seven-league-boots are valuable, I’m told, but Agatha Farmer wants them back again when I have completed my journey.”

Johnny Dooit nods as I list my possessions. “You have been well-provisioned for a long journey,” he notes. “Although you have neglected to mention the fairy-servant who accompanies you-- not that I would want another one. But I am very interested in your Verwandlungsumhang. It is beautifully made.” I must look puzzled. “Your patchwork cloak of transformation,” he explains, gesturing his long fingers at me.

“But… this was made especially for me,” I reply. “How would it be of any use to you? For one thing, you only have two arms.”

Johnny Dooit laughs his cheery, high-pitched laugh. “Of course, I would need to adjust the spells that were laid on it. But if you will be willing to give it up, I will accept it as payment.” He raises a finger. “But you would be limited to your natural form ever after,” he cautions.

I somewhat reluctantly agree to the bargain. Johnny Dooit explains that a sand-boat would be impractical for a single person to operate, but he will build me something just as effective. There is also an intimation that he does not want to build the same thing twice. Or perhaps he cannot. He sings as he works.

The only way to do a thing
Is do it when you can,
And do it cheerfully, and sing
And work and think and plan.
The only real unhappy one Is he who dares to shirk;
The only really happy one Is he who cares to work.

The contraption resembles a headless ostrich, five stories tall. It is made entirely of wood, which was all somehow produced entirely from Johnny Dooit’s copper chest. Intricately carved wooden gears are visible within the tall, hollow frame.

“You could not have managed a sandboat on your own,” Johnny Dooit explains. “So I have built you a walking machine. You should be able to cross the Deadly Desert in a day, but get an early start tomorrow morning. I put a thick coat of varnish on it, but that should be dry in about an hour. You should spend some time getting used to the controls before you make your trip. Good luck, Johnny Four-Arms.”

Johnny Dooit took a long drag on his pipe, slammed the lid of his copper chest, and vanished in the blink of an eye.

The upper platform is accessible with a series of ladders. There is a wooden chair bolted to the center of the platform, complete with a wooden parasol. A pair of large, wooden foot-pedals, as might be found on a church organ, protrude from the floor in front. Over and between the pedals is also a large ship’s wheel for steering. Two tall handles on either side of the chair control the balance of the mechanism. Seated, with my feet on the pedals, two hands on the wheel, and two hands on the handles, I am very comfortable. The thing has been made for me. It does not take long before I am operating the walking machine smoothly. I almost tip over only once, on a sharp turn. Once I get moving, there is also a gyroscopic mechanism somewhere down beneath me which helps keep everything in balance.

It is about as tiring as walking up a steep hill.

I sleep again in the grassy meadow, just outside the Land of Oz.

CHAPTER THIRTY
TO OZ: DAY FIFTEEN
OZ AT LAST

I lunch high in the air in the middle of the Great Sandy Waste, on my onion of cheese and half-a-loaf of bread, and a couple of fruits I picked from the sparse trees in the southern meadow. I see nothing but sand in front of me and sand in back of me. I have been trying to keep the sun on my right shoulder; I know there is a danger of walking in circles when a person is left to their own sense of direction. The sun, however, is now nearly directly overhead, and I wait until it peeks over the left side of the parasol before proceeding.

Red-rock mountains rise in the distance before I see anything more than sand beneath me. I step out of the desert, past black and wilting grass, into a luxurious, heavily wooded meadowland which extends as far as the eye can see. The closest trees are heavy with cherries and red plums. I must be in the Quadling Country in the Land of Oz. I check the Oz-compass, and it is spinning lazily.

I climb down from my perch into the rhubarb-colored grass, and see that the clawed “feet” of the walking machine are scratched and pitted, and timber in the “legs” is cracked and splitting. Little flakes of yellowing varnish flutter to the ground. The whole mechanism suddenly collapses into a pile of broken lumber as I barely jump out of the way. The wood quickly disintegrates into sawdust, and a gentle breeze from the North blows it all out into the Deadly Desert.

I was unfamiliar with this aspect of Johnny Dooit’s magic.

I sample the local fruit without having a real supper, then head out in a northerly direction. After several minutes, I realize that I am not walking with the seven-league boots, and invoke their enchantment.

I take a step.

I am standing near a wide, well-worn road of smooth red earth, with flagstones of red adobe on either side. The road parallels a wide blue river not far off. I situate myself on the road, and take another step.

The road meanders through a village of adobe homes with rounded roofs. Low brick walls with swinging red wood gates surround small yards and gardens. I have appeared next to a little ginger-headed girl in a red pinafore standing next to me. She screams, and runs away into a nearby house. The door opens again, and a tall, slender red-headed woman comes out. She is followed by a shorter, plumper, red-headed, red-nosed man.

“Hello, stranger,” says the woman in a soft, mellow voice. “Where do you come from so suddenly?”

“Seven-league boots,” I explain, wiggling a toe. “I am on my way to the Emerald City, but I am not sure in what direction it lies.”

“It is several day’s journey,” says the woman. She pauses, reconsidering. “Of course, you could reach it in a few steps, if those are really seven-league boots. But it is already dusk, and it would be best to visit the Emerald City in the morning. Even better would be to meet with Glinda first. Perhaps you could stay the night with us?”

Several other men and women are now standing in their doorways. The woman addresses a stout little man peeping out of a window.

“Quacko, perhaps this Gillikin could spend the night in your spare room?”

“I would be happy to show him hospitality,” says Quacko, coming out of his door and bowing slightly. “I can even share a meal or two with him, if he likes duck soup, and bread and butter.” There is a humorous quacking quality to Quacko’s voice.

“They call me Quacko,” Quacko explains over dinner, “Because I have a tree in my back yard which bears delicious roast duck, rich and fatty.”

There are good-sized nuggets of this roast duck in the noodle soup we are sharing. It is really is delicious.

“Before full ripeness, the fruit of the Duck Trees are duck eggs,” Quacko continues. “I’ll make you some for breakfast in the morning.”

As I prepare for bed in Quacko’s spare room, I see the low fire in the hearth, and miss my patchwork cloak. It has been such a habit caring for it every night.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
TO OZ: DAY SIXTEEN
ESCORTS

I wake in the morning and sigh, missing my magic coat again. Then I see that I am missing my seven-league boots as well. They have been replaced by thick red leather moccasins. I go out to confront Quacko.

Standing at attention outside Quacko’s front door are two guards. Both women, both redheads, they stand tall enough that I can look them straight in the eye, even in my Branx form. They wear tall bearskin hats that make them look even taller. Their uniforms are cherry-and-burgundy, trimmed in white. Their skirts reach mid-calf, but they wear slacks beneath the skirts as well, and tall red leather boots. Each has a long sword in a scabbard strapped to their belts. They also carry spears with well-polished metal tips. Rising above their bearskin hats, each holds a spear at least nine feet long. They look like they know how to use them.

There is also a small cart, harnessed to a red-and-white dappled goat. In the cart are my seven-league boots. I admit to myself they have been well cared for; they have been neatly polished, so that even the iron soles and heels shine.

“Greetings, Gillikin,” says one of the guards. “We are here to escort you safely to Glinda’s Palace, where the Good Sorceress will meet with you.”

“Is she good?” I ask.

“All Quadlings know her to be Good,” says the soldier. “For she is fair to everyone. Surely the reputation of our Sorceress has reached even the Gillikin countries?”

“I know of Glinda,” I reply. “But to tell you the truth, I am not a Gillikin. I am from a world beyond Oz, beyond all Faeryland. Tharn is its name, to be specific. I am… well, lately I am called Johnny Four-Arms.”

“You are from the Great Outside World, from whence Glinda’s Wizard, and the Princess Jewell came so long ago?”

“I suppose I am,” I admit.

“And you are not Faery, not even a Troll?”

“I am not.”

“And why do you have these powerful magical implements?” she asked, indicating the seven-league boots.

“I was recently employed as a Witch’s Famulus, and borrowed these boots to make a pilgrimage to the Emerald City. I must return them to her when I have completed my journey.”

“There are only three Witches in Oz, and one Wizard,” said the soldier. “And they are the servants of Glinda. They alone are permitted by law to perform magic in our country. But we will escort you safely to Glinda, and if you have legitimate business in the Emerald City, she will assist you in completing your journey there.”

Quacko has fulfilled his promise of making me duck-eggs for breakfast. There is a pile of half-a-dozen hard-boiled, as well as fruit juice, waffles, butter, and molasses. After eating my fill, I take up my satchel and go out to meet Glinda’s guards again.

“You should really have something to eat,” I advise. “Quacko sets a nice table.”

“We require neither food nor sleep, for Glinda’s wonderful Wizard once invented two marvelous tablets, one of which is the same as a good dinner, and the other of which is as good as a full night’s sleep, with pleasant dreams. While on orders, we always carry a good supply with us. Now, if you are ready, Johnny Four-Arms, I suggest we begin our journey, for it is nearly a day’s walk from here to the Palace.”

“If we are going to spend the day together, perhaps you could tell me your names?”

“I am Lieutenant Corette, and this is my commanding officer, Captain Apricotta.”

It is Corette who has been speaking to me, and answering my questions all morning. Captain Apricotta has been silent, only nodding her head in approval or agreement.

The truth, however, is that as they are very alike in appearance, and as there are no visible insignias of rank, I confuse the two more often than not.

One might think that spending a day with two tall, beautiful women would be a pleasant experience. However, the two are very serious, and not amenable to conversation. They also walk very briskly, and although I have been on the road steadily for over two weeks, it is a tiring journey, despite my Branx Warrior constitution.

We stop for lunch, and I try one of the Meal Tablets. It dissolves in the mouth quickly, making a viscous fluid. It has a sort of mixed taste of fish sauce and chocolate syrup, sweet and salty and bitter and sour all at once. It is wholly unpleasant, but I swallow it. After eating, I have no appetite to eat anything else.

By mid-afternoon we reach the Palace. I have seen stones of rough, unpolished ruby before, and the walls appear to be made of the stuff. Although mostly red, there are veins of blue and green and white corundum as well.

We are met by a small, elderly couple within the Palace gates. Captain Apricotta and Lieutenant Corette give smart salutes, and march off with the goat-cart.

The old man is small and as bald as one of Quacko’s duck-eggs. His ears are too large for his head. His cheeks are hollow, and his piercing green eyes deeply recessed, and he is so slender as to appear almost malnourished. He wears a long green tailcoat with red piping, and loose-fitting red-and-green plaid trousers. His appearance is at once comical and unnerving.

The woman is slightly taller, perhaps a couple of inches over five feet. She is built square and solid, as one who had worked hard her whole life. She was probably lovely in her youth. Her hair is uniformly grey, and her eyes were grey as well. She is dressed in a white blouse with a grey skirt, and wears a crimson sash over her left shoulder.

“You come from a world far away in space and time,” says the old man.

“I do,” I admit.

“Well, I am Oz, the Great and Terrible,” says the Wizard.

“And you must be Dorothy,” I addressed the old woman.

“Dorothy died,” she replied. “In the midst of the great Kansas prairies. My Uncle Frank replaced my name with hers in the stories I told him of my childhood visits to the Land of Oz. At the age of ninety-nine, Ozma brought me here to live permanently. My given name is Matilda Jewell Gage, but they call me Princess Jewell here. In other parts of Faeryland, though, I am known as Ythorod the Witch-Killer.”

“And are you really Oscar Diggs of Omaha, Nebraska?” I ask the Wizard.

“I was born in the Nebraska territories, but Omaha had not even been incorporated when I was born. My full name is Oscar Ambroise Diggs, and in my youth I toured the country as a ventriloquist, with a dummy named Pinhead. I also performed as a magician, balloonist, and snake-oil salesman, although I now hold the position of Glinda’s Wizard. It pleases the Sorceress to keep us alive as her servants, and at these ages. Although she could easily restore our youth, as she does to her own self, she chooses not to. Outside of the Land of Oz, I am known as the Wizard Ambroise, and no one has really called me Oz, the Great and Terrible for many generations.”

“We hope this has dissuaded you of the idea that you know everything about our country just by reading books,” says Princess Jewell. "We are to introduce you to Glinda tomorrow, and we encourage you to speak little, and listen most carefully. Glinda is a powerful Sorceress, and thinks of herself as Good and Benevolent, but she has the temperament of a Fairy, and can be unpredictable… er, from the viewpoint of a human, at least.”

“Hey, I resent the implication,” cries Modesty, appearing in a shower of golden sparkles over the Wizard’s head. “O wow, this place is just saturated with magic, isn’t it?”

The Wizard brushed the glitter off his bald pate and frowned. “I would advise you to keep your fairy-servant well hidden,” he enjoined. “Yes, there is much magic here, but Glinda likes to keep it under control.” He lowered his voice. “Her personal control. She has some… strong ideas about what magic is and is not appropriate. She considers certain types of magic to be morally… well, immoral. Especially the kinds she cannot control.”

“I’m afraid I have little control over Modesty myself,” I admit. “You followed me all the way here?”

“Every step,” says the fairy. “But I can take a hint. There’s a troop of pixies over in Winkieland I could hide out with. I can watch you from there.” Modesty vanished in another shower of golden sparks.

“I don’t really know how to control her,” I explain. “I summoned her once, and she bit me. Now she follows me everywhere I go, turning up when I least expect it. I suppose I’m not a very good magician. She gifted me an ‘ever-filled purse’, but the enchantment wore off after a couple of weeks. She did save my life, once.”

Princess Jewell frowned. “You may be a better magician than you think,” she said.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
TO OZ: DAY SEVENTEEN
GLINDA THE GOOD

After an excellent supper, a comfortable bed in a luxuriously appointed room, and a good breakfast, I am standing before Glinda the Good, Ruler of the Quadling Country, and High Sorceress of all the Land of Oz, flanked by the Wizard and Princess Jewell.

Glinda is a typical Quadling, beautiful, tall and red-headed, with blue eyes that seem to beam kindness. She wears a simple white dress embroidered with blood-red hearts, and wears a modest tiara of red gold. She appears to be about thirty years old, but I know her true age is measured in millenia.

“Wizard Ambroise,” says Glinda. “Do you find me… unpredictable?”

“Just so, my lady,” says the Wizard. “For you have knowledge beyond any other in Oz. Your Magic Book keeps a record of all that occurs within the borders of the Deserts, and this is only one small source of your knowledge. For this reason, no mortal or fairy can anticipate your decisions or the reasons for them, but all appeal to you for wisdom.”

“And what of you, Strebor of Tharn?” asks Glinda.

“I only know what I have heard and read,” I say. “And much of that, I understand, is inaccurate.”

There is an uncomfortable silence.

“And why have you sought me out, Strebor of Tharn?” she asked.

I want to say I didn’t seek her out, her guards brought me here. But I refrain.

“I have promised the owner of my seven-league boots that I will return them to her, but I do not know where they are.”

“I can return them to her immediately, if you will tell me who she is,” Glinda suggests.

“I am sure you can,” I say, “But I find them useful for a few more days-- in completing the final leg of my quest.”

“And what is this quest, Strebor of Tharn?”

I dig into my satchel. “I am attempting to fulfill a prophecy concerning my destiny,” I explain.

I pull out Adrastos’ Oracle:
SEEK OUT A CRAFTSMAN OF GOOD REPUTE
ASK YOUR EMPLOYER FOR A RECOMMENDATION
LET STREBOR GO TO THE CITY OF EMERALDS
ASK THE LIBRARIAN

“I see,” says Glinda. “I can have Apricotta and Corette escort you to the Emerald City, but you would need to speak with His Majesty, King Ozuru Pastoria, who rules there, and all the Land of Oz. I believe I can arrange that as well, but I am loath to promise you anything until I have investigated further.”

“Ozuru Pastoria is the grandson of Ozma, who brought me to this land more than a thousand years ago,” Princess Jewell explains quietly.

“High on the hill-top the old King sits; he is now so old and grey he's nigh lost his wits,” the Wizard murmurs.

It is clear that Glinda is finished with us, and her guards escort me back into my room. I am surprised to see Modesty is waiting for me there.

“Glinda has a magic book, in which she can read all that occurs in Oz,” says Modesty. “I’m puttin’ up some static, so she won’t read about me. You be quiet, and let me talk.”

I lie down on the bed, ignoring the pixie, and pretend to doze.

“Glinda plans to keep the seven-league boots as payment for sending you to the King,” Modesty explains. “In spite of the fact that you could have gotten there yourself, if she hadn’t taken them away from you. To her way of thinking, it's fair. She’s doing you a magical favor, and taking something as payment in return. I’d just swipe ‘em after you got done talking to the King, but I can’t get near ‘em. They’re iron, and us pixies have a little problem with iron.”

I get off the bed, and go look out the window at the city around the palace, bright in the afternoon sun.

“I wonder what I should say to the King,” I wonder out loud. “I have no idea why I’m going to the Emerald City, except that the prophecy said so. That seems odd to say, having just spent a half-a-month on the road to get here.” I flop back down on the bed.

Modesty laughs, a high, tinkling sound. “Don’t think it matters what you say. The King’s just going to throw you out of Oz anyway. He doesn’t like intruders from the outside. He tolerates the Wizard and Princess Jewell because he’s afraid of Glinda, but once you introduce yourself, he’s going to want to throw you back out into Faeryland Proper immediately. And he can do it, too. He’s got a Magic Belt Princess Jewell once stole that’s pretty powerful. King Ozuru and Glinda aren’t the most powerful in the Land of Oz, though. That’s the Fairy Queen Lurline. She might listen to me, us both being fairies, but you can never be sure talking to Royalty what they’ll do.”

I get up again, and stroll to the window. “I wonder when the Palace serves lunch,” I say.

“Oh, that’s my cue to go,” says Modesty. And when I turn around, I see that she is gone. I check the carpet, and see that she did not even leave behind any pixie dust.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
TO OZ: DAY EIGHTEEN
THE CITY OF EMERALDS

“It’s a good three day journey to the Emerald City”, says Lieutenant Corette. “Over high mountains, and through dark forests. We’d better get started. Have some breakfast.”

She hands me another of the Dinner Tablets, and I choke it down. We step past the portcullis and across the drawbridge.

“But Glinda has given us something that will get us to the Emerald City in an hour and a half,” Lieutenant Corette continues. She unrolls a carpet, about six feet wide and twelve feet long. One half is green, the other red. “Walk towards the green end, and we’ll be in the Emerald City in no time.”

We walk single-file, Lieutenant Corette first, then myself, then Captain Apricotta. As before, the Quadling guards march in silence. In my Branx form, I can’t even whistle. The journey goes quickly, however, and we soon arrive at the great green walls surrounding the city.

The Guardian of the Gate bows to us-- or rather, to Glinda’s guards, and announces, “His Majesty, King Ozuru Pastoria, Rightful Ruler of the Emerald City and the Four Lands of Oz, awaits your arrival, and grants you the audience requested by his servant, the Sorceress Glinda the Good.”

We step off the carpet, which rolls itself up and begins to roll back to the South without us. We are joined by a second escort of a half-dozen soldiers in green-and-gold uniforms, none as tall as Corette or Apricotta. We are hurried through the streets to the great green palace at the center of the city.

In the green-carpeted anteroom, the Ozite guards leave us. Corette and Apricotta demur, insisting that I enter the King’s throne room alone.

The throne room is all emerald and malachite. Life-sized statues of men and beasts line the walls, some of stone and some of metal. A number of braziers on high lamp-poles illuminate the room with a green fire. On the throne sits King Ozuru. There is no one else there.

The throne is on a stage so high I have to crane my neck. The king is so old and wizened that he makes the old Wizard Ambroise look positively healthy by comparison. Unlike the Wizard, he has hair-- long, stringy gray-white hair, and a long, scraggly, unkempt beard that reaches below his waist. He wears a wide, golden, jewel-studded belt which runs from his chest to his crotch.

The green flames fade to yellow, then white. The King peers at me.

“You look like you would be at home with the Gillikins up North,” says the King. He speaks very quietly, but this room has excellent acoustics.

“So I have been told, your Majesty.” I try to bow politely. “And yet my origins are the same as the Wizard Ambroise and Princess Jewell.”

“We need no more visitors from the Great Outside World,” declares King Ozuru. “Let this be a lesson to any others who would violate our sanctuary.” He raises his fist, makes an odd gesture, and commands, “To the dungeons with you.”

I am in a dank, damp, green dungeon. There is a cot, a small table, a chamber-pot, and a barred window which is, on my side, just above eye-level, and outside, just at street level.There is no door, and it appears the only way to enter this dungeon is with the King’s magic belt.

With nothing else to do, I lie down on the cot. It is surprisingly comfortable, firm, but not too hard.

I doze off.

“Hey, Boss!” chirps Modesty, waking me up. “Guess that’s another oracle fulfilled, am I right?”

“Pretty sure this is not how I want to spend the rest of my life,” I say.

“But think of the fun you had getting here!” says Modesty. “Come on, let’s go.”

“Go where?” I ask. “Either Glinda or the King will send their soldiers after me, even if you could magic away those iron bars. Which you can’t.”

“They’re not iron, they’re iron-plated gold. Gold is so common in Oz they use it for everything. In Munchkinland, they built a whole road out of bricks of the stuff. Sure, the bolts are iron, but are you a Branx Warrior or not? Just rip ‘em out of the wall.”

“And then where will I go?”

“Dungeons really get you down, don’t they? While you were sleeping, I intercepted Glinda’s carpet. I couldn’t touch your iron boots, but the Quadlings had just left them in the goat cart at Glinda’s palace. So I gave the goat a dose of pixie dust. Then I put him on the carpet, and bound him with a geas to bring the cart to you. He should be here in a few minutes.”

“Modesty, you’re a wonder,” I say.

It is surprisingly easy to rip the bars out of the wall, and climb up onto the street. The goat shows up on time, and by the time I have the seven-league boots on again, the people on the street are just beginning to notice us.

“North,” says Modesty. In seven quick steps, I stop dead.

“I must be too close to the Deadly Desert,” I deduce.

“There’s a spot up in the northwest corner of the Winkie Country where the desert’s pretty narrow,” Modesty informs me. “If that doesn’t work, we’ll need to think of something else.”

I head in the direction of the setting sun, but in a few steps I am balked again.

“We’ll have to go the slow way,” I tell Modesty. She is keeping up, and keeping visible.

“You know,” says Modesty, “In theory, you could triangulate on a destination, and get anywhere you want to in like two steps.”

“I know that,” I tell her. “I’m just not that good at geometry.”

“O, but I’m a whiz,” says Modesty. She buzzes around my head, then hovers in the air. “Walk this way.”

I take a step. A moment later Modesty is there. She hovers at a different angle. “No, a little more to the left. My left. The other left. Perfect. Take a step.”

I am standing on an outcropping of yellow sandstone on the edge of the Deadly Desert. Modesty lands on my shoulder, and sits, making herself comfortable. I turn by degrees, pushing against the invisible resistance of my boots. Suddenly, there is a slip.

And I am standing in a field of lavender.

“Now all you need to do is figure out how to get back across the Nonestic Ocean,” giggles Modesty.

And she is gone again.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
AN IRON TRAIN

Two steps to the Northeast and I am in sight of the seashore.

I hypothesize that if there is a narrow part to the Deadly Desert, there may also be a narrow path over the Nonestic Ocean. All I need is a single line less than seven leagues long connecting to a segment of the opposite shore. I have tried several times before when going the opposite way, but I have not tried every single angle at every single point. That would take ages. But as long as I am here, I may as well take a chance.

I walk into the surf until the water is waist-deep. I try to take the magic step, but meet the same familiar resistance. I turn a fraction of a degree, then another, and another and… I am standing in the surf, knee-deep in ocean water, facing a narrow beach. Just beyond is a field of beautiful flowers in a riot of color.

As I climb up the beach, I see faces in the nearest flowers. They follow me, like a sunflower following the sun. And they really are faces-- this is clearly some floral faery race. It is best to be cautious when dealing with unknown faery-folk. I approach as near as I dare.

“Can you tell me,” I ask, in my mildest Branx voice, “Where I am?” There is no response. “What is the name of this place?” I ask. “What are your people called?”

The nearest flowers waver on their stems, look at one another, then look back at me. There is a wave in the flowery field, like a stone being cast into a pond, that travels back as far as I can see.

I cannot take a seven-league step over the flowers. It is best not to walk through them the ordinary way, not in iron-soled boots. I walk away on a sandy road to the left. It is clear from the geography that I am on some small island. I look for a path through the flower fields, and eventually find one. It is a broad road of well-worn cobblestones, nearly flattened, with tall, rough rock walls on either side. Here, the brilliant flowers are not visible. I come to an intersection, then another, and soon realize I have wandered into a maze. However, it is not beyond my abilities to hoist myself up on the wall, where I can see the flower fields again, the path I have followed, and even down to my footprints on the beach. I hop down, and follow the advice I once learned in a math class. Placing a left hand on the wall, I will follow the maze. No matter how convoluted the maze, I will eventually find my way out the way I came in. If I find nothing interesting, I will take the right-hand route. The day is half-done. If necessary, I can camp out in the maze. Perhaps I will discover the prophesied Librarian at the center.

I do need to camp out overnight, and mark the left-hand wall with an arrow so I will not be confused in the morning.

I awake to the sound of crashing metal.

The vehicle is the size of two or three eighteen-wheelers. It resembles a chain of circus cars, each with bars like an animal cage. The entire contraption is made out of iron-- even the giant wheels. It is badly rusted. Some of the bolts and hinges are so old and deteriorated that they rattle. It is unusual to see so much iron in one place in Faeryland. Most of the fey are badly allergic, ogres and dwarves excepted.

Inside, the cages are filled with children. From what I can see, they appear human, or mostly human. All quite young. I would be surprised if there is a teenager among them.

The whole train of cage-cars is pulled by a half-dozen immense horse-like creatures, constructed of green ropey vines. More vegetable faeries ride astride. Outside and behind the caravan are a wide assortment of flower-fairies and plant-creatures, ranging in size from pixielike to at least twenty feet tall. A green man in a green frock coat and top hat leads the whole procession.

“Troll,” the green man shouts at me. “How have you come to the Enchanted Isle?”

“I was visiting the Delkapan Continent,” I explain. “And sort of wound up here by mistake.”

“Well, you need to move on,” says the green man. “Only faeries of the Floral Kingdoms are allowed on this island. No ogres or other fauna allowed.”

“Not that it makes any difference,” I explain. “But I am not an ogre. I am from the Great Outside World, and as human as these captive children appear to be. I am called Johnny Four-Arms in Faeryland, although where I once came from, I was called Strebor.”

“Surprising,” said the green man. “I am Major-General Folhagem, Mayor of one-seventh of the Enchanted Isle of Floramaze. You are under some sort of enchantment?”

“More of a magical accident,” I explain. “But I am concerned about these children who you seem to have imprisoned. Where are you taking them?”

Folhagem sighed, emitting a cloud of green vapor. “That is just the problem,” he said. “And you have only added to it. Excuse me, while I speak with my entourage.” Folhagem returns to the group following the iron train, and then goes to speak with the vegetable equestrians. He then returns to me.

“We have not imprisoned these children,” Folhagem explains. “We are only their care-takers. These are changeling from all throughout Faeryland, and they have been sent here to be returned home. There is a great cave at the center of Floramaze which once served as a portal back to the Mortal Realms. Changelings would be dropped on our shores, and we would escort them to the caves. There was a group of dwarf-miners who lived there, who would unlock the doors of the iron cages, and take the children into the depths beneath. There the changelings would be led to a portal home. But though we call for them, the dwarves no longer come, and we must now care for these changelings. There is plenty of ripe fruit for them to eat, which we do not begrudge them, and they are so few in number that there is plenty of fresh water to share. But we dare not touch the iron bars, nor can we open the iron locks, so it is a great inconvenience for both us and them.”

“How long has this been going on?” I inquire.

“Years,” Folhagem admitted. “We share responsibility with the other six sectors, exchanging stewardship every full moon. This is the sixth or seventh time I have had custody, so… perhaps three or four years?”

“I could open the iron locks, if you have the key,” I suggest. “And release the children.”

“Only the dwarves had the keys,” says Folhagem.

“Well, then,” I suggest, “I imagine I could break the locks myself, with a little effort.”

Folhagem thinks on this for a while.

“Would you be willing,” asks Folhagem, “To take the children into the caves, to see if there is a way home for them? Or, failing that, take them off the island?”

“I will explore the caves myself,” I agree. “If I find a portal, I will take them home, and return to my homeworld as well. Otherwise, do you have a ship I could use?”

“The second sector has an old sailing vessel that would fit you all,” says Folhagem. “But let us first head towards the portal cave.”

It is a day's journey through the maze, and at the end, I am completely lost.

We camp outside the cave, which has an entrance so high that even the tallest of the green faery-folk could enter without bumping their head. They stay well away from it, though. I wonder if there is iron in the mine.

As the changeling children have had nothing but ripe fruit for the past three to five years, I take my onion of cheese and half-a-loaf, and let them pass it around. I count up the children, and there are just thirty-two.

As the sun sets, I see why the faery are reluctant to enter the cave. As the light wanes, all fall into a comatose sleep. They would undoubtedly do the same in the dark of the cave. I will need a light myself if I am to explore very far, and make a note to myself to ask Folhagem about it in the morning.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
THE LIBRARIAN

Before I enter the cave, I remove my seven-league boots, and bid them farewell, instructing them to return to Agatha Farmer. They tremble and vanish, taking the first step of their solo journey. Without me as a passenger, I assume they will easily cross the Nonestic ocean, walking on the bottom of the sea.

Folhagem assures me that there will be torches to light my way within the walls within the cave. One more reason the vegetable faeries are loath to enter. They fear fire as much as darkness. I anoint my eyes with the Ointment of True Sight, just to be sure I don’t miss anything. And enter the cave.

The cave entrance faces the sunrise, so there is light for quite a way in. As the floor slopes down, the light dims, but I see numerous unlit torches in brass brackets on the wall. I easily light them with my tinder box. A little way further, and I see scrawled on a wall in foot-high letters (in what appears to be dried blood) “Now Leaving Faeryland”. Not far beyond that, the walls change from rough rock to polished stone, and then again to bright white marble. There are no forks to choose from, no twisty little passages, all alike. There is only one way to go. Down.

The end of the path is a small round cavern. There is a swirling, multi-colored portal hovering in the air, which lights the curved walls.

There is a little wooden desk beside the portal. Seated in a swiveling wooden chair is a large, black, squarish semi-humanoid cat with cherry-red paws and a shock of matching red fur crowning its head, and matching, glowing red eyes. Standing beside the desk is a golden, cat-headed robot.

“Strebor, we meet at last,” says the black cat. “Welcome to the Library of Destinies. I am the Librarian. My name is Purr Degaton. And this is my assistant, Mewkanique.” The robotic librarian’s assistant bows.

“You must be joking,” I object. “You are the Librarian I am supposed to consult about my destiny?”

“None better,” says Purr Degaton. “This portal is the doorway into the Library of Destinies. Sadly, my Destiny was destroyed when my Universe died in an omniversal catastrophe. Fortunately, Mewkanique and I were between Universes at the time, and managed to survive. Unfortunately, due to the same catastrophe, the world you come from no longer exists as well, but another Destiny awaits you beyond this portal. Go out, bring the changeling children with you, and we will find homes and Destinies for all of you.”

I brought two torches with me, and the second one is used up before I am back into the light. I grab a couple extra on the way out. The morning is well spent by the time I exit the cave. I let Folhagem know that I have found the portal into the Mortal Realm. Now the only obstacle is freeing the changeling children from their iron cages.

I am able to snap the rusted iron locks with only a modicum of Branx effort. I take the opportunity to speak with each of the children about our plan to return them to their homes as I work through the cages. Some are reluctant, having been in Faeryland, unaging, for decades. But all ultimately agree they would rather be back in the Mortal Realm than to serve again as a servant to a Faery or Elf. All of them agree that their past masters were less than ideal. Some of them were forgotten by their masters after a few years, left to wander Faeryland alone. Others were set neverending tasks, forgetting who they were and where they came from. Others were teased and tormented for the amusement of the creatures they lived with. Eventually each of their masters tired of them, and sent them to the Floramaze Isle, to be returned to the Mortal Realm.

It is late afternoon by the time everyone is ready to go. I would prefer to let the children rest one more night, but Folhagem insists we leave immediately. When we get to the torches, I distribute a few among the older children. I also think to set up a “buddy system” so no one gets lost on the way down.

“What happened to the dwarves?” I ask Purr Degaton when we arrive at the librarian’s desk.

“Who knows?” replies the red-haired cat. “When the omniverse collapsed and re-formed, Mewkanique and I found ourselves adrift and homeless. We were offered the Librarian position without much backstory. It seemed best to accept the gift horse without examining its mouth too closely.”

“And you can assure me that the children’s home lies on the other side of this portal?” I ask.

“I can assure you,” says Purr Degaton, “They will be safe in the journey, and will quickly find their way home again. You cannot stay in Faeryland at any rate. I exhort you to move forward as quickly as possible, as we have more patrons arriving from other realms. Shortly. And this cavern can get crowded quickly.”

“Other realms?” I ask.

“This is a nexus,” Purr Degaton responds, somewhat impatiently. “Faeryland is not our only client.” He gestures towards the kaleidoscopic portal.

I lead my little group through.

One of the girls remarks, “I like him. He’s a good kitty.”

I wish I was sure of that.

It takes a while for my eyes to adjust. My first impression is of a sky full of stars. Then I see the gently sloping ramp in front of us.

“Look.up.” Mewkanique has come with us. There are “oohs” and “aahs” from the children.

There is an immense double-spiral towering over our heads. Here and there along the ascending, twisting ramps are lighted doorways. As my mind begins to grasp what I am seeing, the scene calls to mind an illustration of the double-helix of the DNA molecule. As I look off into the distance, there are infinitely many other helices in every direction, ascending into the black sky. I see that we are not actually standing on solid ground, but on one of the strange dark spirals themselves.

“The.changeling.children’s.Universes.were.destroyed.in.the.great.catastrophe,” says Mewkanique. “But.they.will.find.that.new.homes.will.call.out.to.them.Take.them.up.You.will.find.a.new.home.as.well.Strebor…”

We begin the journey upward, leaving Mewkanique behind.

“This way, this way,” cries a little girl named Ellen. We pull up aside to one of the lighted doorways. There is an ominous figure standing beside the doorless doorway. It is a bearded old man, wearing a tattered dark robe with a deep cowl. He holds an immense book in his hands, which is chained to his waist.

“Welcome Ellen,” says the apparition. “Welcome home.”

Through the doorway, we can see a medium-sized white house with windows trimmed in dark brown. A modest lawn extends out to the doorway; a tall maple tree sits in the yard. Ellen runs toward the house.

“Welcome home, Ellen,” the apparition intones again.

A moment later an elvish child runs out of the doorway, and scampers down the spiral, heading from the kaleidoscopic portal still shining far below.

A changeling. Changeling children, re-exchanged for their fairy counterparts.

A little girl named Mabel finds a portal leading to a cozy English cottage. The book-holder beside this doorway is different, his beard less gray, his robe more brown.

“Welcome home, Mabel.”

Another elf-child scampers down the hill.

“Welcome home, Katherine.” “Welcome home, Peter.” “Welcome home, Hannah.” “Welcome home, Thomas.” “Welcome home, David.” “Welcome home, Plato.” “Welcome home, Dori.” “Welcome home, Antonia.” “Welcome home, Mandrake.” “Welcome home, Paco.”

The guardians of the doorways are younger, and older, some robes well-cared for, others stained and torn. Their robes are shades of black and grey and brown and burgundy and purple. Some are women. A few have animal-faces. The pages of the books are white or yellowing, glowing or dark. The chains are old and new, rusted and polished, iron and gold.

“Welcome home, Ervin.” “Welcome home, Wendell.” “Welcome home, Tallulah.” “Welcome home, Fagel.” “Welcome home, Nashville.” “Welcome home, Martin.” “Welcome home, Gerald.” “Welcome home, Michael.” “Welcome home, Magya.” “Welcome home, Lotta.” “Welcome home, Sybil.”

My little group is dwindling. The elven children who replace them are broad-faced, pointed-eared, wall-eyed; fur-faced, fat or thin, some with tails. They all disappear quickly down, down, back to Faeryland.

“Welcome home, Bernard.” “Welcome home, Buster.” “Welcome home, Cher.” “Welcome home, Jacob.” “Welcome home, Simon.” “Welcome home, Bruce.” “Welcome home, Bartholomew.” “Welcome home, Matke.” “Welcome home, Barney.”

I am alone. I now also feel a pull upwards, like a silent siren song. I continue to climb. I am ultimately drawn to a doorway which opens on a verdant greensward. The guardian of this gate is an old woman, with silvery robes. Her face beneath her hood is as dark as her hair is white.

“Welcome, Strebor,” she says, gesturing towards the doorway. “Welcome home.”

I step through the door onto the greensward. I immediately recognize it as one of The Sensei’s training grounds on Tharn.

I am home.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
THE CIRCLE CLOSES

I do not have to wait long until The Sensei appears.

“I do not have room for you,” he says. “I am training three apprentices already.”

“I have nowhere else to go,” I explain. I rummage through my backpack, and find the Personal Oracle given to me by Adrastos. As I unfold it, it bursts into an icy-blue flame, and vanishes in acrid smoke.

“I suppose I can appeal to the Provosts,” says The Sensei. “But you have not shown great promise as a magician.” He makes a pass, and a complex sigil appears in my palm. “Here is a temporary meal chit,” he says. “I’ll have Kluhesh take you to dinner in one of the dining halls.”

Kluhesh is The Sensei’s newest apprentice. She is an immense gold-complexioned Khund, easily eight feet tall, and built like a wall. Her tastes at the dining hall run similar to my natural Branx inclination: a great deal of meat, and a great deal of drink. We return to the cafeteria line for seconds, thirds, and fourths. As we sit digesting the meal, The Sensei shows up.

“I have arranged an examination for you tomorrow with a panel of three provosts,” says The Sensei. “I pled penury for you, as you left nothing behind when you left the Artificers. But you ought to contact Weber’s World, and apply for the stipend again. I find it unlikely that you will find a place again at the University.”

I find one of the University libraries, and fill out the online forms to renew my UP stipend. I reactivate my Interplanetary Bank account, and discover that I have apparently been absent from this Universe for a little over six years. I sort through my rucksack and find:

1 A Tinder Box, still in working order
2 A rotted Onion-of-Cheese
3 A moldy Half-a-Loaf
4 An ordinary Knife
5 The green Oz-Compass, now useful only as a paper-weight
6 The feathery Stragulum, now about the size of a lap-blanket, and no longer stretchable
7 One empty Coin-Purse
8 A small empty finger-pot which once held the Ointment of True Sight
10 The Sevenhourglass, now empty of sand
11 A pair of red leather slippers

I put on the slippers, as I have been going barefoot since entering the cave. I browse the stacks at the library for a couple of hours, until The Sensei finds me again. He leads me back to my old dorm room. It clearly has a new occupant, apparently female. She is not here, but there is a midnight-blue gown laid out on my old bed.

“I have reassigned this room to my apprentice Eurydice,” The Sensei explains. “She is under a demonic curse. Every night when she falls asleep, she is transported to one of the Netherhells. After eight to twelve hours, she returns unharmed-- physically at least.”

“She is your apprentice?” I ask. “I would think that she would prefer to be studying Demonology or Necromancy.”

“It is not our intention to master the demons who torture her,” The Sensei explains. “But to break the curse.”

“Oh.”

“You do not want to be here when she wakes up. I would advise you leave before sunrise.”

There is a familiar tinkling, and a shower of golden fairy-dust.

“What kind of place is this?” asks my fairy. “There’s hardly enough mana to breathe!”

“What in the name of the Momochis were you thinking bringing a pixie here?” cries The Sensei.

“He didn’t bring me,” retorts Modesty. “I came by myself.” She is gasping a little, but her Vanity sassiness still slips through.

“Well, I advise you to go back where you came from,” replies The Sensei. “The laws of this Universe are anathema to your kind.”

“I couldn’t,” replies Modesty. “Even if I wanted to. Unless you can open a doorway into Faeryland. Which I don’t think you can.”

“You know those can only be opened from your side. There are some pathways on Faerth, but it is a long way from here, and I really don’t think you would survive the journey.”

“Then I guess I made a foolish choice,” says the pixie, “Following Four-Armed Johnny.” She shrugs, and coughs a little. “I guess even fairies don’t live forever.”

“Would it help,” I ask, “If I said I believe in you?”

“Silly ass,” says Modesty.

“She is a kind of a pixie called a Vanity,” I explain to The Sensei. “The witch I was serving had me summon her as a kind of practice spell. She followed me across Faeryland-- millions of miles. She seems benign-- has even helped me on several occasions-- but I can’t really control her. That has concerned me, as she seems like a very powerful magic-user. Now that she’s followed me to Tharn, I don’t know what to do. We can’t just let her die, can we?”

“I have never thought you much of a magician,” says The Sensei. “But I see that I have seriously overestimated you. There may be someone on staff who can help.” The Sensei leaves me alone with my pixie.

“Why did you do it?” I ask Modesty. “Why did you follow me out of Faeryland?”

“It was-- an impulse,” the pixie gasps weakly. “Just like that time I saved your life. Stupid-- decisions, really. Never been good at-- choices.” She seems to fall asleep. The faint golden light around her dims.

The Sensei returns shortly with another sorcerer, a lizard-faced creature with pince-nez and a long beard, dressed in what are clearly pajamas. He scoops up the sleeping fairy and drops her into a round flask, and seals it with a stopper. Modesty continues to sleep, but her little golden glow is slightly brighter.

“I’ll take her with me,” says the lizard wizard. “Safe in this container, she should be able to make the journey to Faerth. Assuming we can find someone to provide transport.”

“Get some sleep,” advises The Sensei. “Your meeting with the Provost panel at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning.”

I lie sleepless for some time, but am awakened by the dawn rising in my southern window. I do not bother with the cleanroom-- it would take some time to get the grime of Faeryland off me anyway-- and leave the dorm room as quickly as possible.

I meet Eurydice in the cafeteria over breakfast.

“I understand we shared a bed last night,” she says. She is pretty in a human sort of way, not really beautiful, but with bright blue eyes and curly blond hair.

I stammer for a moment. “I don’t really know how to respond to that,” I finally admit.

“I understand it was your old room,” she says. “When you were apprenticed to The Sensei. You look like you are quite a warrior now.”

“Not really,” I admit. “I may look big and strong, but I have the soul of a coward.”

“Or a pacifist,” Eurydice speculates.

“Oh, to the contrary. Being a pacifist requires more courage than a warrior. You have to be willing to trust the Fates; accept that bad things happen,” says Euidice. “I am not willing to accept that,” she states flatly.

“Yes, I am appalled to hear about your curse.”

“We are making good progress. Last night they left me alone in the Wood of the Suicides while they argued about what to do with me. A lonely place, but quiet. Almost like real sleep.”

“Hell doesn’t know what to do with you?”

“The demons have learned to be wary of me. I fight back now.”

After breakfast, I see that my Stipend has been reactivated. The thing about living on the University campus is that there is so much available. It is like a well-stocked marketplace.

I go to one of the less expensive haberdasheries and have a set of traditional Branx clothing manufactured in faux fur-and-leather. Collar, armbands, wristbands, lederhosen, and boots. I head for one of the athletic fields, and use a cleanroom to make myself presentable. A few minutes before eleven, I am ushered into the examination room.

“Greetings, young Strebor,” says the old, white-haired woman. “I am Noadiah Nebb of Naltor, of the College of Auguries. This is Professor Zevan Meltzer, College of Thaumaturgie, and Lady Elymiah, of the College of White Sorcery. We have reviewed your records, and spoken with your former Master, The Sensei. I understand you are requesting readmittance to the University?”

“I suppose I am,” I answer. “I’m not sure, really. I… just have nowhere else I fit in.”

“Let me ask you about this,” says Lady Elymiah. She brings out the flask containing my sleeping pixie. “I spoke with Herr Lacerta last night. Can you tell me your side of the story?”

I explain my history with Agatha Farmer, and of summoning the pixie. The Provosts have many questions, some of which I can answer, and some I cannot. Some merely bring the details of that encounter to my mind.

“I want you to understand something,” says Lady Elymiah seriously. “There is a powerful bond between the two of you, both magical and emotional. The pixie is… dependent on you. She languishes when you are apart. She follows you voluntarily… but nearly involuntarily. Something like the love of a dog for its master, although you could never tell her what to do. Will you take upon you the responsibility of caring for this creature?”

“I… I suppose I should. And she has been very kind to me.” I reply.

“She may not be so kind in the future,” says Noadiah Nebb. “Are you sure of this? It is rather like taking responsibility for a half-wild animal.”

I consider this carefully. “Yes, I understand. I will take responsibility for her. But I thought she could not… survive… on Faerth.”

“Indeed,” says Lady Elymiah. “I will let you know that we are also afraid that if we return her to Faeryland, she will die of loneliness without you.”

“So I am to be sent back to Faeryland as well?” I inquire.

“Not at all,” says Professor Meltzer. “We are loath to send Mundanes to Faeryland without good cause. We have a rather different solution.” He pulls out a black-and-yellow bird in a gilded cage. “We will merge the essences of these two creatures: the pixie and a Tellurian fairy-wren. It will take some time for your fairy to become accustomed to its new body, but in time, it will again develop the ability to speak. As a tangible, living being, it will generate its own mana, and this will sustain its fairy nature. We give it to you to serve as a familiar, improving the quality of any spells you may learn.”

“Understand what a boon we grant you,” says Noadiah Nebb. “You have not finished your apprentice’s training, and yet we are endowing you with a Familiar. Do not abuse this privilege. We will be watching.”

Professor Meltzer lays one hand on the cage, another on the flask. The light in the flask gradually dims as the fairy-form within gradually disappears. He opens the cage door, and the little fairy-wren flies to my shoulder. And relieves herself there with a loud chirp.

Noadiah Nebb smiles. “We are also authorized at this time to offer you employment. Considering the work you did for Agatha Farmer, as well as Professor Meltzer, we would like to offer you an entry-level position on the janitor’s staff at the University. There are a number of cleaning spells that must be renewed from time-to-time, as well as some cleaning and repair that can only be done by hand. You will be trained in the administration of these spells and duties. You will, as well, be at the disposal of the one hundred and sixty-nine University Libraries, for general reshelving and upkeep. You will receive training in this as well. There is an opportunity for advancement on both tracks-- ultimately as Head Custodian, or Head Librarian. This, however, would require exemplary performance over a number of decades. The starting salary is one-and-one-half the U.P. Stipend, after taxes, plus room and board. There is a nice little fairy-tale cottage behind the Children’s Library on the College of Myth campus, currently vacant. We will allow you three days to accept or reject this offer. Your employment, of course, will be at-will, although we do ask thirteen days' notice should you choose to resign.”

The following day, I accept their offer.

This section of my Earth-K paracosm is only tangentially related to the (any) DC Universe.
Going forward, I fear it will go even further afield.
I will be spending my time at Myrddin University on Tharn (just outside the capital city of St. Bosco), following the (hopefully) final year of the apprenticeships of Jon Falstaff, Zauberlein, La Bruja Amarilla, Occultress, Sohai Hadyn, and likely some others.
These tales will probably not be of any particular interest to a group of Legion fans, so I shall most likely not continue posting, at least not on this thread.