Christopher Stasheff - Wizard in Rhyme 03 - The Witch Doctor

What can you say about a friend who leaves town without telling

you?

I mean, I left Matt sitting there in the coffee shop trying to

translate that gobbledygook parchment of his, and when I came back

after class, he was gone. I asked if anybody'd seen him go, but nobody

had-just that, when they'd looked up, he'd been gone.

That was no big deal, of courser didn't own Matt, and he was a big

boy. If he wanted to go take a hike, that was his business. But he'd

left that damn parchment behind, and ever since he'd found it, he'd

handled it as if it were the crown jewels-so he sure as hell wouldn't

have just left it on the table in a busy coffee shop. Somebody could

have thrown it in the wastebasket without looking. He was just lucky

it was still there when I got back. So I picked it up and put it in my

notebook. "Tell him I've got his parchment," I told Alice.

She nodded without looking up from the coffee she was pouring.

"Sure thing, Saul. If you see him first, tell him he forgot to

pay his bill this morning."

"Saul" is me. Matt claimed I'd been enlightened, so he called me

"Paul." I went along-it was okay as an in-joke, and it was funny the

first time. After that, I suffered through it-from Matt. Not from

anyone else. "Saul" is me. I just keep a wary eye for teenagers with

slingshots who also play harp.

"Will do," I said, and went out the door-but it nagged at me

especially since I had never known Matt to forget to pay Alice

before.

Forget to put on his socks, maybe, but not to pay his tab.

When I got back to my apartment, I took out his mystical

manuscript and looked at it. Matt thought it was parchment, but I

didn't think he was any judge of sheepskins. He certainly hadn't

gotten his.

Well, okay, he had two of them, but they hadn't given him the

third degree yet-and wouldn't, the way he was hung up on that

untranslatable bit of doggerel. Oh, sure, maybe he was right, maybe it

was a long-lost document that would establish his reputation as a

scholar and shoot him up to full professor overnight-but maybe the moon

is made of calcified green cheese, too.

Me, I was working on my second M.A.-anything to justify staying

around campus. Matt had gone on for his doctorate, but I couldn't stay

interested in any one subject that long. They all began to seem kind

of silly, the way the professors were so fanatical about the smallest

details.

By that standard, Matt was a born professor, all right. He just

spun his wheels, trying to translate a parchment that he thought was

six hundred years old but was written in a language nobody had ever

heard of. I looked it over, shook my head, and put it back in the

notebook. He'd show up looking for it sooner or later.

But he didn't. He didn't show up at all.

After a couple of days, I developed a gnawing uncertainty about

his having left town-maybe he had just disappeared. I know, I know, I

was letting my imagination run away with me, but I couldn't squelch the

thought.

So what do you do when a friend disappears?

You have to find out whether or not to worry.

The first day, I was only a little concerned, especially after I

went back to the coffee shop, and they said he hadn't been in looking

for his damn parchment. The second day, I started getting worried-it

was midnight and he hadn't shown up at the coffeehouse. Then I began

to think maybe he'd forgotten to eat again and blacked out-so I went

around to his apartment to tell him off.

He lived in one of those old one-family houses that had been

converted into five apartments, if you want to call them that-a

nine-bytwelve living room with a kitchenette wall, and a cubbyhole for

a bedroom. I knocked, but he didn't answer. I knocked again, Then I

waited a good long time before I knocked a third time. Still no

answer. At three A.M when the neighbor came out and yelled at me to

stop knocking so hard, I really got worried-and the next day, when

nobody answered, I figured, Okay, third time's the charm-so I went

outside, glanced around to make sure nobody was looking, and quietly

crawled in the back window. Matt really ought to lock up at night;

I've always told him so.

I had to crawl across the table-Matt liked to eat and write by

natural light-and stepped into a mess.

Look, I've got a pretty strong stomach, and Matt was never big on

housekeeping. A high stack of dishes with mold on them, I could have

understood-but wall-to-wall spiderwebs? No way. How could he live

like that? I mean, it wasn't just spiderwebs in the corners-it was

spiderwebs choking the furniture! I couldn't have sat down without

getting caught in dusty silk! And the proprietors were still there,

too-little brown ones, medium-sized gray ones, and a huge malecater

with a body the size of a quarter and red markings like a big wide grin

on the underside of its abdomen, sitting in the middle of a web six

feet wide that was stretched across the archway to the bed nook.

Then the sun came out from behind a , loud, its light struck

through the window for about half a minute-and I stood spellbound.

Lit from the back and side like that, the huge web seemed to glow,

every tendril bright. It was beautiful.

Then the sun went in, the light went away, and it was just a dusty

piece of vermin-laden debris.

Speaking of vermin, what had attracted all these eight-legged

wonders? It must have been a bumper year for flies. Or maybe, just

maybe, they'd decided to declare war on the army of cockroaches that

infested the place. If so, more power to them. I decided not to go

spider hunting, after all. Besides, I didn't have time-I had to find

Matt.

The strange thing was, I'd been in that apartment just three days

before, and there hadn't been a single strand of spider silk in sight.

Okay, so they're hard to see-but three days just isn't time enough

for that much decoration.

I stepped up to the archway, nerving myself to sweep that web

aside and swat its builder-but the sun came out again, and the golden

cartwheel was so damned beautiful I just couldn't bring myself to do

it. Besides, I didn't really need to-I could look through it, and the

bedroom sure didn't have any place that was out of sight.

Room enough for a bed, a dresser, a tin wardrobe, and scarcely an

inch more. The bed was rumpled, but Matt wasn't in it.

I turned around, frowning, and scanned the place again. I

wouldn't

say there was no sign of Matt-as I told you, he wasn't big

on house

keeping, and there were stacks of books everywhere, nicely webbed

at the moment-but the pile of dirty dishes was no higher than it had

been, and he himself sure wasn't there.

I stepped out into the hall and closed the door behind me, chewing

it over. No matter how I sliced it, it came out the same-Matt had left

town.

Why so suddenly?

Death in the family. Or close to it. What else could it be?

So I went back to my apartment and started research. One of the

handy things about having some training in scholarship, is that you

know how to find information. I knew what town Matt came fromSepar

City, New Jersey-and I knew how to call long-distance information.

"Mantrell," I told the operator.

"There are three, Sir. Which one did you want?"

I racked my brains. Had Matt ever said anything about his

parents' names? Then I remembered, once, that there had been a

"junior" attached to him. "Matthew."

"We have a Mateo."

"Yeah, that's it." It was a good guess, anyway.

"One moment, please."

The vocodered voice gave me the number. I wrote it down, hung UP,

picked up, and punched in. Six rings, and I found myself hoping nobody

would answer.

"'Alio? I1

I hadn't known his parents were immigrants. His mother sounded

nice.

"I'm calling for Matthew Mantrell," I said. "Junior."

Mateo? Ees not 'ere."

"Just went out for a minute?" I was surprised at the surge of

relief I felt.

"No, no! Ees away-college!"

My spirits took the express elevator down. "Okay. I'll try him

there. Thanks, Mrs. Mantrell."

"Ees okay. You tell him call home, si?"

"Si," I agreed. "Good-bye." I hung up, hoping I would see him

indeed.

So. He hadn't gone home.

Then where?

I know I should have forgotten about it, shoved it to the back

of

my mind, and just contented myself with being really mad at him.

What was the big deal, anyway?

The big deal was that Matt was the only real friend I had, at the

moment-maybe the only one I'd ever had, really. I mean, I hadn't known

Matt all that long; but four years seems like a long time, to me. Four

years, going on five-but who's counting?

It's not as if I'd ever had all that many friends. Let me see,

there was jory in first grade, and Luke, and Ray-and all the rest of

the boys in the class, I suppose. Then it was down to Luke and Ray in

second grade, 'cause jory moved away-but the rest of the kids began to

cool off. My wild stories, I guess. Then Ray moved, too, so it was

just Luke and me in third grade-and Luke eased up, 'cause he wanted to

play with the other kids. Me, I didn't want to play, I was clumsy-I

just wanted to tell stories, but the other kids didn't want to hear

about brave knights rescuing fair damsels. So from fourth grade on, I

was on decent terms with the rest of the kids, but nothing more. Then,

along about junior high, nobody wanted to be caught talking to me,

because the "in" crowd decided I was weird.

What can I say? I was. I mean, a thirteen-year-old boy who

doesn't like baseball and loves reading poetry-what can you say? By

local standards, anyway. And in junior high, local standards are

everything.

Made me miserable, but what could I do?

Find out what they thought made a good man, of course. I watched

and found out real quick that the popular guys weren't afraid to fight,

and they won more fights than they lost. That seemed to go with being

good at sports. So I figured that if I could learn how to fight, I

could be good at sports, too. A karate school had just opened up in

town, so I heckled Mom until she finally took me, just to shut me up.

I had to get a paper route to pay for it, though.

It only took six months before I stopped losing fights. When

school started again in the fall, and the boys started working out

their ranking system by the usual round of bouts, I started winning a

few-and all of a sudden, the other guys got chummy. I warmed to it for

a little while, but it revolted me, too. I knew them for what they

were now, and I stopped caring about them.

It felt good. Besides, I'd connected with karate-and from it, I

got interested in the Far East.

One of the teachers told me I should try not to sound so hostile

and sarcastic all the time.

Sarcastic? Who, me?

So I learned to paste on the smile and sound cheerful.

Didn't work. The other kids could tell. All I succeeded in doing

was acting phony.

Why bother?

Of course, things picked up a little in high school, because there

was a literary magazine, and a drama club, so I got back onto civil

terms with some of the other kids. Not the "in" crowd, of course, but

they bored me, so I didn't care. Much.

So all in all, I wasn't really prepared for college.

Academically, sure-but socially? I mean, I hadn't had a real friend in

ten yearsand all of a sudden, I had a dozen. Not close friends, of

course, but people who smiled and sat down in my booth at the coffee

shop.

Who can blame me if I didn't do any homework?

My profs, that's who. And the registrar, who sent me the little

pink slip with the word probation worked in there. And my academic

counselor, who pointed out that I was earning a quick exit visa from

the Land of Friendship. So I declared an English major, where at least

half of the homework was reading the books I'd already read for

recreation-Twain, and Dickens, and Melville. I discovered Fielding,

and Chaucer, and Joyce, and had more fun. Of course ' I had to take a

grammar course and write term papers, so I learned how to sneak in a

few hours at the library. I didn't take any honors, but I stayed in.

Then I discovered philosophy, and found out that I actually wanted

to go to the library. I started studying without realizing it-it was

so much fun, such a colossal, idiotic, senseless puzzle. Nobody had

any good answers to the big questions, but at least they were asking.

My answers? I was looking for them. That was enough.

So I studied for fun, and almost learned how to party. Never got

very good at it, but I tried-and by my senior year, I even had a couple

of friends who trusted me enough to tell me their troubles.

Not that I ever told them mine, of course. I tried once or twice,

but stopped when I saw the eyes glaze. I figured out that most people

want to talk, but they don't want to listen. It followed from that,

logically, that what they liked about me was that I listened, but

didn't talk. So I didn't. I got a reputation for being the strong and

silent type, just by keeping my mouth shut. I also found out, by

overhearing at a party, that they thought I was the Angry Young Man.

I thought that one over and decided they were right. I was angry

about people. Even the ones I liked, mostly. They wanted to take, but

they didn't want to give. They cared about fighting, but they didn't

care about brains. They spent their time trying to get from one

another, and they didn't care about why they were here.

Oh, don't get me wrong-they were good people. But they didn't

care about me, really. I was a convenience.

Except for Matt.

Matt was already working on his M.A. when I met him, and by the

time I graduated, he was making good progress on his PhD.

So what was I going to do when I got my degree? Leave town, and

the one good friend I had? Not to mention the only three girls who'd

ever thought I was human.

No way.

So I started work on my master's. Physics, of course.

How come? From literature and philosophy?

Because I took "Intro to Asia" for a freshman distribution

requirement, and found out about zen-and learned about Shredinger's Cat

in "History of Science." Put the two together, and it made a lot of

sense.

Don't ask. You had to be there.

Then Matt ran into a snag on his doctoral dissertation. Do you

know what it's like to see a real friend deteriorating in front of your

eyes? He found that scrap of parchment, the-i got hung up trying to

translate it. Wasn't in any known language, so it had to be a prank.

I mean, that's obvious, right? Not even logic-just common sense.

Matt didn't have any.

Now, don't get me wrong. Matt's my friend, and I think the world

of the guy, but I'm realistic about him, too. He was something of a

compulsive, and something of an idealist, as well-to the point of ...

Well, you know the difference between fantasy and reality? Matt

didn't. Not always, anyway.

No, he was convinced that parchment was a real, authentic,

historical document, and he wasted half his last year trying to

decipher it.

I was getting real worried about him-losing weight, bags under his

eyes, drawn and pale ... Matt, not me. I didn't have any spare weight

to lose. Him, he was the credulous type-one of the kind that's born

every minute. I'm one of the other kind, two born for every one of

him. I mean, I wouldn't believe it was April if I didn't see the

calendar. Forget about that robin pecking at the window, and the buds

on the trees. If I don't see it in black and white, it's Nature

pulling a fast one. Maybe a thaw.

So he had disappeared.

I thought about calling the police, but I remembered they

couldn't

do anything-Matt was a grown man, and there hadn't been any

bloodstains in his apartment. Besides, I hadn't been on terribly good

terms with the local constables ever since that year I was

experimenting with recreational chemicals.

Still, I gave it a try. I actually went into the police

station-me, with my long hair and beard. Nobody gave me more than a

casual glance, but my back still prickled-probably from an early

memory, a very early memory, of my father saying something about "the

pigs" loving to beat on anybody who didn't have a crew cut. Of course,

that was long ago, in 1968, and I was so little that all I remember of

him was a big, tall pair of blue jeans with a tie-dyed T-shirt and a

lot of hair at the top. I hated that memory for ten years, because it

was all I knew of him until Mom decided to get in touch with him again,

and I found out he wasn't really the ogre I figured he must have been,

to have left Mom and me that way. Found out it wasn't all his idea,

either. And I had a basis for understanding him-by that time, I had

begun to know what it was like to have all the other kids put you down.

"I'm sorry, kid," he told me once. "I didn't know alienation was

hereditary. " Of course, it wasn't-just the personality traits that

led to it. I wouldn't say I ever loved him, but at least I warmed to

him some. He had shaved and gotten a haircut, even a three-piece suit,

by then, but it didn't fool anybody for very long. Especially me.

Maybe that's why I wear chambray and blue jeans. And long hair, and a

beard-like my early memories of him.

And early memories stay with you longest and deepest, so I really

felt as if I were walking into the lion's den.

The cop at the desk looked up as I approached. "Can I help you?"

About then, he could have helped me out of there, and I might have

needed it-but I said, "I hope so. A friend of mine. He's disappeared.

Right away, he looked grave. "Did he leave any message?"

I thought of the parchment, but what good is writing you can't

read? Besides, he wasn't the one who wrote it. "Not a word."

He frowned. "But he was over twenty-one"' "Yeah," I admitted.

"Any reason to think there might have been foul play?"

Now, that question sent the icicle skittering down my spine. Not

that the idea hadn't been there, lurking at the back of my dread, mind

you-but I had worked real hard not to put words to it. Now that the

sergeant had, I couldn't ignore it any more. "Not really," I

admitted.

"It's just not like him to pick up and pack out like that."

"It happens," the sergeant sighed. "People just get fed up with

life and take off. We'll post his name and watch for him, and let you

know if we find out anything-but that's all we can do."

I'd been pretty sure of that. "Thanks," I said. "He's Matt

Mantrell.

Matthew. And I'm-" "Saul Bremener." He kept his eyes on the form

he was filling in.

"Three-ten North Thirteenth Street. We'll let you know if we hear

anything. " My stomach went hollow, and my skin crawled. It doesn't

always help your morale, finding out that the cops know you by name.

"Uh ... thanks," I croaked.

"Don't mention it." He looked up. "Have a good day, Mr.

Bremener-and don't take any wooden cigarettes, okay?"

"Wooden," I agreed, and turned numbly about and drifted out of

that den of doom. So they remembered my little experiments. It makes

one wonder.

The sunlight and morning air braced me, in spite of the lack of

sleep. I decided they were nice guys, after all-they'd left me alone

until they could see if it was a passing fad, or something permanent.

Passing, in my case. So it was smart-they'd saved taxpayers'

money and my reputation. I wondered if there was anything written

about me anywhere.

Probably. Somewhere. I mean, they had to have something to do

during the slow season. I began to sympathize with Matt-maybe blowing

town suddenly wouldn't be such a bad idea.

Get real, I told myself sternly. Where else would I find such

sympathetic cops?

Back to the search. Maybe they couldn't do anything officially,

but I wasn't official.

So I searched high and low, called the last girl Matt had been

seen with-back when I was a junior-and started getting baggy eyes

myself. Finally, I took a few slugs of Pepto-Bismol as a preventative,

screwed my disgust to the nausea point, and went back into his

apartment.

I scolded myself for not having moved that table; just lucky Matt

hadn't left anything on it. I laid my notebook down on the desk next

to the phone and gave a quick look at the table, the kitchenette

counter, and the miniature sofa. Nothing there but dust and spider

silk.

Then I went through that apartment inch by inch, clearing webs and

squashing spiders. Or trying to, anyway-I must have been dealing with

a new and mutant breed. Those little bug-eaters were fast!

Especially the big fat one-I took my eyes off it for a second to

glance at the arachnid next door, and when I glanced back, it wasn't

there any more.

it wasn't the only thing that wasn't there-neither was any sign of

where Matt might be. I mean, nothing-until I turned and looked at the

kitchenette table and saw the parchment.

I stared. Then I closed my eyes, shook my head, and stared again.

it was still there. I could have sworn I'd put it back in my

notebook-so I picked up the notebook and checked. Yep, the piece of

sheepskin was still in it, all right.

That gave me pause. Practically a freeze, really, while I thought

unprintable thoughts. Finally, slowly, I looked up and checked again.

it was on the table.

I looked down at the notebook, real fast, but not fast enough-it

was back between the lined sheets. I held my head still and flicked a

glance over to the table, but it must have read my mind, 'cause it was

there by the time I looked. Then I laid down the notebook, real

carefully, and stepped back, so I could see both the notebook and the

table at the same time.

They each had a parchment.

Well, that settled that. I gave up and brought the notebook over

to the table. I set it down beside the parchment. Yep, they were both

still there-Matt's parchment in my notebook, and a brand-new one where

none had ever been before. At least, a few minutes before-I had

checked the table as I crawled across it. I frowned, taking a closer

look at the new parchment.

It was written in runes, and the "paper" was genuine sheepskin,

all right.

How come runes?

Because runes are magical.

I tried to ignore the prickling at the base of my skull and told

myself sternly that runes were just ordinary, everyday letters in

somebody else's language. Okay, so it was an old language, and a lot

of the items written in it had been ceremonial, which was why they had

been preserved-but that didn't mean they were magical. I mean, the

people who wrote them may have thought they could work magichut that

was just superstition.

But it was also something that made the scholar in me sit up

brightly and smack his lips. I mean, literature had been one of my

undergraduate majors-justified an extra year on campus, right thereand

although it wasn't my main field any more, I was still interested.

I'd learned at least a little bit about those old symbols-and I

knew Matt had a book around here that explained the rest. I hunted

around until I found it, blew the dust and webbing off, and sat down to

study. I looked up each rune and wrote its Roman-letter equivalent

just above it. I tried pencil first, but it just skittered off that

slick surface, so I had to use a felt pen. After all, this couldn't

really be anything old, could it?

After three letters, I leaned back to see if it made a word.

H-e-y.

I recoiled and glared down at it. How dare it sound like English!

just a coincidence. I went to work on the next word.

P-a-u-l.

I sat very still, my glance riveted to those runes. "Hey, Paul"?

Who in the ninth century knew my name?

Then a thought skipped through, and I took a closer look at the

parchment. I mean, the material itself. It was new, brand-new, fresh

off the sheep, compared to Matt's parchment, which was brittle and

yellow-several years old, at least. Something inside me whispered

centuries, but I resolutely ignored it and went on to the next word.

I wrote the Roman letters above the runes, refusing to be

sidetracked, resisting the temptation to pronounce the words they

formed, until I had all the symbols converted-though something inside

me was adding them up as I went along, and whispering a very nasty

suspicion to me. But as long as I had another rune to look up, I could

ignore it-even after I'd already learned all the runes again and was

looking each one up very deliberately, telling myself it was just to

make sure I hadn't made a mistake.

Finally, though, I had written down all the letter equivalents and

I couldn't put it off any longer. I stayed hunched over the parchment,

my hands spread flat on the table, trying to grip into the plywood as I

read the translated words.

H-e-y P-a-ul g-e-t i-n t-o-u-c-h I-v-e I-o-s-t y-o-u-r address.

Or, to give it the proper emphatic delivery: "Hey, Paul! Get in

touch! I've lost your address!"

I could almost hear Matt's voice saying those words, and I swear

my nails bit into the plywood. What kin o a ousy joe was t is?

Friend? You call that a friend? First he leaves town without a

word, and then he sends me this?

I was just realizing that he couldn't have sent it, when I felt

the pain in the back of my hand.

"Damn!" I snatched it back, saw the little red dot in the center,

then the big fat spider standing there with that big wide grin painted

on its abdomen, and so help me, it was laughing at me. Anger churned

up, but the room was already getting fuzzy. Still, I tried to hang on

to that anger, tried to lift a hand to swat-the blasted thing had no

right to ...

But before I could even finish the thought, the haze thickened,

wrapped itself around me like a cool blanket, rolled itself up, and

bore me away to someplace dim and distant, and I almost managed to stay

conscious.

Chapter Two

When I came to, the mist was gone, and I felt amazingly well. I

mean, I had never felt that whole, that healthy, since I was a kid-and

I hadn't been aware of it then, of course. it was like waking up on an

April day, with the air fresh and warming from the night's chill, and

the sun painting the day in primaries as you watch, and knowing it's

your birthday.

But it wasn't April, it was November, and I was inside Matt's

apartment. Only I wasn't, I was out in the open-and it wasn't November

any more, it really was April. Either that, or it was Florida.

Florida, with mountains stabbing up from the horizon? And not

gently rounded mountains, like the Appalachians, but jagged granite

obelisks, with snow on top?

Of course, they were off in the distance. Close by, all I could

see was a field of wheat, with two or three little hedges cutting it

into odd shapes. Whoever lived here, they could use some lessons in

geometry.

I was just beginning to wonder how I'd come here, when I saw the

knight.

Well, I knew about the Society for Creative Anachronism, of

course, but I also knew they didn't go in for tilting, and this guy was

carrying one of the most authentic lances I could have imagined. Plus,

he was riding a Percheron-and I don't know any SCA types who could

afford the upkeep on a pony, let alone a beerwagon bronc. And, of

course, there were the half-dozen men on

foot behind him, all wearing more or less the same combination of

brown and gray, with steel bands glinting on their hats and long spears

in their hands. They raised a whoop and pointed at me. The knight

turned to look.

He saw me and perked up right away-dropped the point of the lance

to horizontal, aimed the warhorse at me, and kicked it into a gallop.

Must have been the long hair and the beard. Mine, I mean. Either

that, or he had something against blue jeans and chambray.

His men raised another whoop and came pelting after him like

children hearing the bells on an ice cream truck. I just stood there,

staring at all that scrap iron and horse meat thundering down at me,

trying very, very hard not to believe any of it.

Then I realized the tip of the lance had come close enough so that

I could see it was sharp and made of steel, and I had to believe that

much. I jumped aside. The rider tried to swerve, bellowing some nasty

things, but his Percheron didn't have that tight a turning radius, and

he went crashing into the underbrush.

Underbrush?

I whirled around and, sure enough, there it was, just stunted

trees and bushes, a little thicket in the middle of all those fields,

presumably where the ground was too poor to grow anything. Or maybe

around a creek-I braced myself, hoping to hear a splash.

Instead, I heard a crack that filled my whole head, along with a

Christopher Stasheff - Wizard in Rhyme 03 - The Witch Doctor

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