Christopher Stasheff - Wizard in Rhyme 5 - My Son, the Wizardl

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Christopher Stasheff – Wizard in Rhyme 5 – My Son, The Wizard

Chapter One

The air over the broad table shimmered and thickened, coalescing into a pint-sized gryphon who took

one look at the man who had conjured it up, screamed, and shot toward him with talons reaching out.

" 'But the haunch and the hump and the hide of the law is: Obey!' " Saul intoned. "Land on my shoulder

—and don't pinch!"

The gryphon changed course on the instant, wheeling about Saul's head to land on his shoulder—gently.

It furled its wings and glowered at Saul resentfully, but it obeyed.

"Amazing," Matt said, staring. "And it'll work on any kind of monster you conjure up?"

"Any kind I conjure up, yes," Saul said. "How it will work on something an enemy calls up, I don't

know." He snapped out a quick verse, and the gryphon disappeared.

"Very impressive," Matt said.

Saul shrugged irritably. "I don't do magic just to show off."

"No, you do it to share your research with an ally who might need it—and I very easily might. Thanks a

lot." Matt smiled. "I thought you didn't do magic at all—or do you still think this is all one massive

hallucination?"

"No, I've admitted to myself that it's real, at least in this fantasy universe, " Saul sighed, "and that I can

actually make strange things happen by reciting poetry. I still don't buy that idea about the magical

power coming from either God or the Devil, though, with no gray source in between."

"How do you explain the difference between white and black, then?"

"How do you explain the difference between white and black on an old-fashioned TV screen?" Saul

countered.

Matt shrugged. "White is where there're a lot of electrons hitting the back of the screen, black is where

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Christopher Stasheff – Wizard in Rhyme 5 – My Son, The Wizard

there are none—if you absolutely have to call it 'black'; it's all really shades of blue."

Saul nodded. "Same thing. Whether it's good magic or bad magic depends on what it's used for—which

is to say, it depends on the person who does the using."

"You think it's a talent, then? Not something everybody can learn to do, like physics and chemistry?"

"I'm not all that sure that everybody can learn physics and chemistry," Saul countered. "I think there's

definitely a matter of talent involved in being a good engineer. And I know it takes talent to be a good

magician—we've both seen people try, reciting enough poetry to burn down a forest but only lighting a

campfire."

"So everybody can do it, but not everybody can do it well." Matt nodded. "Yeah, I'd have to agree. But

how come a poet like Frisson just happens to have such vast power?"

"Because the same talent that makes a poet, also makes a magician—at least, in this universe," Saul said.

"I'm not sure yet, but I think there really isn't any distinction between them."

"So I'm a powerful wizard because I have enough of the poet's talent to love literature, and get a body-

rush from it—but not enough to make up any real poetry."

Saul nodded. "But Frisson, who makes up good verses the way he breathes—sheer instinct, can't help

himself…"

"And emits great poetry at least once a week, without realizing it." Matt felt the bite of envy.

"Right. He also happens to be such a powerful magician that he was a walking hazard, until I taught him

how to write dowry the poetry instead of chanting it aloud whenever the Muse hit him."

"Like lightning to a lightning rod." Matt nodded with a wry smile. "Yeah, I'd have to say it's a matter of

talent."

"Sure." Saul shrugged. "Otherwise, every peasant would be memorizing spells from birth, and

everybody would be shooting magic around so often that a whole village would burn down every time

somebody got a little irritated with somebody else."

Matt stared. "You mean magical talent could be a countersurvival trait?"

"Unless it happens to be linked to genes for unusually good judgment and amazingly good self-restraint,

yes." Saul gave Matt a bitter smile. "Now do you see why I don't like to work magic if I don't have to?"

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Christopher Stasheff – Wizard in Rhyme 5 – My Son, The Wizard

"Yeah." Privately, Matt didn't—he thought Saul was one of the most levelheaded people he knew, and

his massive self-restraint was only partially disguised by the hippie ways that he tried so hard to live out.

Matt turned and looked out the window. "There's the other reason why you don't like to work magic."

Saul came to stand at the tall clerestory window, looking down into Queen Alisande's private garden,

where the queen and Lady Angelique were comparing babies. "Oh, how right you are," Saul said softly.

"You never know when a spell might backfire and hurt them. That's why, when I do have to do some

chanting, I go off by myself, at least a hundred yards from the house—and I'm very careful."

He always had been, actually, where other people were concerned, though he tried to seem indifferent.

"Glad you could come visit," Matt said. "There aren't too many women that Alisande can relax and

gossip with."

"Well, our ladies aren't god-sibs, but I get the point," Saul replied. "Sir Guy and Lady Yverne don't stop

by too often, then?"

"Christmas and Easter. Other than that, Sir Guy only shows up when there's trouble. We'd like to invite

them to dinner, but we don't know where they live."

"You mean he doesn't even tell you?"

Matt shook his head. "Security nut. Mind you, I probably would be, too, if I had a wife and babies and

was heir to a broken-up empire— especially if I didn't want to be emperor, and thought the individual

kingdoms were doing just fine the way they were."

"Well, when you put it that way, it does sound like justified paranoia," Saul admitted. "It would kind of

make him liable to be a political pawn."

"Yes, and with people he loves as hostages, he could be very vulnerable indeed," Matt agreed. "Easier to

stay hidden—and safer for everybody concerned."

"Suppose so," Saul allowed. "Does kind of make me feel sorry for Yverne, though."

"She knew it going in," Matt sighed, "and knew she could have been queen of Ibile, too. She doesn't

seem to have any regrets, but I notice she does a lot of talking whenever she's here."

"High energy level, no doubt," Saul agreed. "One more who thinks of this castle as a home away from

home."

"Yeah... home." Uneasiness prickled Matt's conscience. "Be nice to be able to visit the folks again."

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Christopher Stasheff – Wizard in Rhyme 5 – My Son, The Wizard

"No it wouldn't." Saul's voice had an edge to it. "Me, I had a pompous autocrat for a father and a phony

pill-popper for a mother. I like your world just fine, Matt."

"My world, yes." Matt felt a glow as he looked out over the wall of the private garden to the courtyard,

and the castle towers beyond. "My world, my home …" He glanced down at his wife and son again and

felt the glow spread. "Be nice if the kid could meet his grandparents, though."

"Yeah," Saul answered with a mirthless smile. "How do you think they'll feel about having a prince for a

grandson?"

"Fine, considering who the queen is." But conscience pricked harder. "Kind of too bad we had to get

married without their blessing, though… "

"What were you going to do? Send a limo to bring them to the church?"

Matt looked up with a sudden glint in his eye. "Maybe. Just maybe I could have!"

Saul stared at his face and shuddered. "I know that look. The last time you had it, you got hung up on

translating an indecipherable parchment, and look where that got you!"

"Yeah, with the perfect wife, a prince for a baby, and the highest position in the land next to hers! If all

my ideas work out that well—"

"If," Saul said, interrupting. "You have a knack of developing dangerous projects, lad."

"Dangerous? Me, A.B.D. in comparative literature? How dangerous can poetry be?"

"Plenty, in a universe in which magic works by rhyme, and literary criticism is equivalent to theoretical

physics. What bomb are you planning to explode this time?"

"Hey, if I could travel here, I should be able to travel back, shouldn't I?"

"Forgive him, St. Moncaire," Saul called toward the heavens.

"Wouldn't the saint want me to pay attention to my mother and father? I mean, Saul, five years! Five

years since they heard anything from me! They'll be frantic!" This time conscience stabbed, and deeply.

"Not so long as that," Saul reminded him. "Remember, you'd only been gone a few days when I started

hunting you, but it was two years here."

"Time moves faster in this universe, huh? But that means it's been a week there!"

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Christopher Stasheff – Wizard in Rhyme 5 – My Son, The Wizard

"Yeah, a week, and you a hundred miles away in college! Tell me they're worried sick."

"Yeah, there is that." Matt turned to watch Alisande again, calming a little. "Probably not worried at all."

"Didn't sound like it, when I talked to them. Your mother just told me to look for you on campus. Hey,

you never told me she was an immigrant."

"Yeah, came from Cuba when Castro—" Matt's head snapped up. "You talked to her!"

"I wouldn't say that. My Spanish is only a little worse than her English, and—"

"You phoned them!"

"Sure." Saul frowned. "You'd disappeared without leaving any word. Of course I thought of trying you

at home!"

"But you got them worried! Now they know I'm missing!"

"Hey, I just asked for you," Saul protested. "I didn't say where I was calling from—and I sure didn't tell

them you'd gone missing!"

"You don't know my mother! If some people have worry warts, she's got an anxiety aneurysm! She'll

start wondering, she'll call the college and check!"

"Hey, man, don't freak out on me! How's she gonna check up if she can't speak English?"

"She'll pester them until they find somebody who speaks Spanish! That woman is smart!"

Saul lifted his head. "Dr. Korbinsky!"

"Right! She speaks Spanish—and she's on my doctoral committee! All I need is to have two

overprotective mothers putting their heads together and working up a panic! Saul, I've got to get home!"

"Right, sure, I gotcha, man." Saul was actually trying to sound soothing. "But where's the bus?"

"I'll ask the Spider King! He'll know!"

"Sure." Saul's lip twisted. "All you have to do is find him."

"Oh, I have a notion he's keeping an eye on me—on all of us, now that you mention it."

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Christopher Stasheff – Wizard in Rhyme 5 – My Son, The Wizard

"I didn't."

"Doesn't matter. He's thorough—attention to detail and all that."

"Oh, and I'm a detail, am I?"

"Saul." Matt put a hand on his friend's shoulder. "In the cosmic scheme of things …"

". .. we're all details, yeah, sure! What do you think, all you have to do is tell the nearest spider, 'Connect

me to the Big Boy'?"

"Wouldn't be surprised." Matt frowned, looking directly into Saul's eyes. "You do understand how this is

really important, don't you?"

"Why ask me?" Saul jerked his head toward Alisande. "She's your sovereign."

Matt asked his sovereign that evening. His sovereign said yes. His wife went all teary and told him he

was a heartless beast for ignoring his mother for so long. He reassured her that only a week had passed

for his mother, which mollified her somewhat—but she still thought he was a stony, calloused monster

not to have thought of them sooner.

Privately, Matt agreed.

The next morning, he dug out the clothes he'd worn when he arrived in Merovence. He'd gone back to

rescue them from the ruins of Sayeesa's castle when some hint of pack-rat caution had made him feel he

might need them again, though Heaven knew why. He checked the pockets to make sure his wallet, key,

and pocket change were all there, then put on the white shirt, dress slacks, loafers, and sport coat. It was

amazing that Saul had ever been willing to talk to him—Saul, for whom the height of fashion had

always been a chambray shirt, blue jeans, and boots. Of course, Saul had always paid more attention to

what people held inside their heads than to what they wore on their bodies, and although the inner

fashions usually went with the outer, occasionlly he found, and respected, the individual who didn't

really pay much attention to either. Matt had always been a lousy dresser.

He went out while the dew still lingered on the spider silk, found the biggest web in the garden, and told

the resident arachnid, "I'd like to talk to the Spider King, if he's free. It's about going home to visit— my

original home, that is."

A sunbeam struck the dewdrops, glittering, making the whole web a spangled wonder; it caught Matt's

attention, fascinating him, seeming to expand to surround him. The sunlight winked and dazzled and

shot rays from each drop. Matt found himself overwhelmed by the beauty of it, reeled at the spectacle,

felt his breath pressed from him by the impact of such glory.

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Christopher Stasheff – Wizard in Rhyme 5 – My Son, The Wizard

Then the moment passed, the web seemed to dwindle again, and the spider still sat in the center,

oblivious of it all. With a sigh of regret, Matt straightened, lifting his gaze...

And stared.

He froze in shock. The corner store looked the same as it always had. Whenever he had come home to

visit, it had always looked the same, only the brands on the shelves changing the styles of their labels.

Home to visit? Yes, he was, wasn't he? The Spider King, whose web of forces and personas stretched

across the dimensions to catch all the Earths in all the alternate universes, had acted with amazing speed.

Matt couldn't help feeling that it had been too easy, much too easy, especially considering how much

effort he had expended for weeks, even months, before he'd finally been able to make sense of the

arcane verse he'd found, and been transported to Merovence. Suddenly, Matt began to feel an old and

highly unpleasant sensation, as if there were invisible strings tied to his ankles, wrists, and temples. He

was being manipulated again. He began to wonder if it was really Saul who had put the idea of going

home into his mind.

Something roared behind him. Matt whirled, adrenaline pumping. What kind of supernatural monster... ?

The Route 34 bus pulled up to the curb.

Matt stared. He was so used to seeing dragons and manticores that the bus did seem supernatural—and

the stink of exhaust, which he'd scarcely noticed before, was a veritable stench. He'd been spoiled by

clean air.

The doors folded open, and the driver said, "You gettin' on, mac, or just lookin'?"

Matt couldn't help the foolish grin that spread over his face. "Just saying hello, Mr. Joe."

The driver stared, then grinned. "Hey, it's you, Matt! Day off from school, huh?"

Matt gave a half shrug and a sheepish grin.

"Day off, but they didn't know about it." Joe chuckled. "Well, good to see you, boy. Take care."

"You, too, Mr. Joe." Matt raised a hand.

"Just 'Joe' now, Matt," the driver said. "You're old enough, and I been telling you that for eight years. So

long, now!"

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The doors closed, and the bus rumbled away, turning the corner. Matt followed it with his gaze, taking

in the rest of the intersection. The apartment building on the northwest corner still looked the same,

except that the landlord had finally had the stoop fixed. The little meat market across the street still

looked as busy as ever. As he watched, Mrs. Picorelli bustled up to put some more cans on the shelf,

then bustled away back out of the light—seventy-five, and still going strong. He hoped her husband was

still okay—at eighty, he should have been taking his ease in a rocking chair, not still cutting meat. But

who was going to make him retire? He owned the store.

Then he remembered that he'd seen them just last Easter, and it couldn't be later than early June. If it had

been, the schoolkids would have been out playing in the street, ducking out of the way when a car came

along. No reason to think the old couple were in any worse shape than when he'd last seen them. Of

course, that had been five years ago for him—but not for them.

He turned, strolling down the street. The Spider King's aim had been nearly perfect—not quite at his

parents' doorstep but only half a block away. Not bad, from another universe. He noticed that Mr.

Gussenhoven's garden was as neat and tidy as ever, his lawn still rich and luxuriant. The corner of the

garden wall was broken again, and the heavy piece of angle iron tilted over, making the whole fence

lean. Some drunken idiot must have crashed into it with his car, trying to make a K-turn at night. He

must have been drunk, or he would have realized that the heavy steel would dent his fender nicely. He

might not pay Mr. Gussenhoven for the damage, but he'd pay his body shop.

Matt turned to look down the length of the street, still not quite believing he was home. Only a few

minutes ago, he'd been inside the walls of a castle; his wife had been holding court in a real, genuine

throne room where the suits of armor standing in the corners had real live guards inside them—and now

he was here, on a quiet blue-collar street in suburban New Jersey! It was definitely unbelievable.

But as the gloss wore off, claustrophobia suddenly hit. The houses were so close together, the front

yards so small! Had he really grown up here, and thought it was perfectly normal? It seemed so hard to

believe now—not just compared to his wife's castle, but even to the university town where he'd gone to

college!

Of course, it used to look a lot better. The Daleys' garden had shrunk, flower by flower, even after they'd

put the chain-link fence up. "Those darn kids, while they're waiting for the bus!" Mrs. Daley had told

him. "They get into fights and knock each other into my bushes! They play tag and trample all over my

petunias!" But she'd kept replanting—for a while. "The police said I couldn't complain if I didn't have a

fence," she said, "so I put up the chain-link. The kids climb it to pick flowers for their girls. The police

tell me they've got too much real trouble to worry about a few posies."

So year by year, the neighborhood had lost its flowers. Mr. Gussenhoven had patched up the corner of

his retaining wall the first time a car had crumbled it while making a K-turn. Then he'd patched it again,

when he'd come out and found it broken again, only this time, he'd reinforced it with the angle iron.

Apparently that had made the kids mad, when they damaged their cars on the K-turns, because they must

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Christopher Stasheff – Wizard in Rhyme 5 – My Son, The Wizard

have come back with sledgehammers and broken ten feet of wall. Mr. Gussenhoven had fixed that, too,

but not anymore. The corner was broken now, and looked as if it was going to stay that way.

Matt looked up and down the street, noticing all the signs of disrepair and decay. Some of those

gardener couples had died; others had moved to retirement villages. He wondered what kind of people

had moved in. What were his parents doing here, his educated, cultured mother and father?

He knew the answer to that. Sure, his father had a graduate degree in literature, but he had chosen to

teach college. His mother had taken her M.A. and started her doctoral coursework after Matt started

school, but by the time she hit the job market, the colleges were trying to get rid of faculty, not hiring

new. Papa had been passed over for tenure again and again, which meant no promotions, which meant

there had never been money for her to finish her degree. For a minute, Matt felt a surge of second-

generation hatred for Castro, for driving his mother out of the comfortable house and lifestyle her father

had worked so hard to keep up. They had also lost the money he had saved for her education, so she had

needed to work her way through, taking two years longer.

He swallowed the anger, reminding himself that if she had stayed in Cuba, she never would have met

Papa, and Matt himself never would have been born—not as he knew himself, anyway. Different

parents, different body, different personality, probably—but the same soul?

He shrugged the question off, irritated. He was back in the USA now, not in Merovence! Those kinds of

questions had no meaning here—did they?

"Well, if it ain't the college boy."

Matt's head snapped up. Lost in his thoughts and memories—he should have known better! Liam, Choy,

and Luco had stepped out from under some rock to block his way.

"Playin' hooky, chicken boy?"

The "chicken" struck home; old fears raised their grinning heads inside Matt. These three had taken

every chance to torment him since they'd hit junior high, even though he'd been two years ahead—along

with their half-dozen buddies. The fear hollowed Matt's stomach; dread climbed up into his chest, his

arms...

...and faded away. It disappeared as quickly as it had come. Iron determination took its place. Matt stood

mute and staring, amazed at himself.

Luco laughed. "Too scared to talk, huh? Think I'm the truant officer?"

He guffawed at his own wit. Choy and Liam echoed him.

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Christopher Stasheff – Wizard in Rhyme 5 – My Son, The Wizard

The jeering raised Matt's anger. He let it build, glad of it, but held it at its proper level. "Truant officer?

Well, I suppose you know all about playing hooky, Luco."

Luco's grin turned nasty. "Permanent hooky, dum-dum. We got smart."

"That's why you've got such good jobs, huh?"

Liam swung a short, vicious jab to the ribs. Matt blocked by reflex, and for a second Liam's eyes went

wide. Then they narrowed again, and he snarled, "So the college finally taught you something, huh?

Let's see how they did on street fighting!"

He swung again, but Matt jumped back, knowing what was coming— Luco's fists, from the right, in a

quick combination. Matt danced away, reciting,

"His nose should pant and his lip should curl,

His cheeks should flame, and his brow should furl,

His foot should trip, for he is my foe,

And his chin receive a hammer of a knockdown blow!"

Luco stumbled and flinched—nothing more. Of course. This was the USA, in the universe of science

and reason, where poetry could only work wonders in people's hearts. Pear started again.

"Very pretty," Choy snarled, and lashed a kick at Matt's belly.

He caught Choy's foot. He actually caught it. He stared at the sneaker for a second in amazement. He'd

never been able to move that fast before.

At least, not in this universe. He grinned up at Choy, twisting, then shoving the foot away. "Slowed

down, Choy. Too many drugs, huh?"

Choy hopped backward, cursing, face darkening with anger. Liam and Luco both struck, red-faced and

outraged.

"Think they really taught you something, college boy?"

"Think you're better'n we are, huh?"

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