The Moment of the Magician: A Spellsinger Adventure (Book Four)

  Jon-Tom awoke the following morning, stretched, and was awake in an instant. They were surrounded. Not by Gyrnaught’s minions, nor by the faceless demons of Markus the Ineluctable.

  There were thirty otters staring back at him, and every one of them looked exactly like Mudge. Jon-Tom had experienced his share of oddities recently, but nothing to match this.

  “Good morning, Jon-Tom!” the thirty chorused inunison.

  He tried to rein in his panicky thoughts. Was he seeing some kind of multiple mirror image fashioned by someone well versed in the wizardly arts? No. If that were the case, they should all move as well as talk simultaneously. But some were bending over in laughter, others talking to their neighbors, still others doffing their hats by way of greeting. Each moved independently of the other.

  There was a simpler explanation, of course. This world had finally sent him over the edge.

  One similarity stood out on careful inspection. It was enough to convince him he hadn’t tumbled down some metaphysical rabbit hole. While each duplicate of the otter moved independently of the others, displaying different expressions and making different gestures, every one of them stayed in one spot. None retreated and none approached.

  Until one stumbled into him from behind and nearly scared him to death. He grabbed this sole mobile by the shoulders and shook it violently.

  “Mudge, is it you?”

  The otter’s eyes were glazed. “I ain’t sure no more, mate. I used to think I were me. Now I ain’t so sure. I was out gatherin’ breakfast berries when I came back to see this lot.” He gestured at the circle of Mudges enclosing their campsite. “Maybe I ain’t me. Maybe one o’ them is me.”

  “We’re all you,” said the otterish chorus, “every one of us.”

  “Yes, but I’m a better you,” insisted a pair of Mudges off to the right.

  “Not a chance,” argued three across the circle. “We’re the best Mudges, we are.”

  “Oi, you couldn’t fool your own real parents,” declared a quartet of Mudges from the right flank.

  “There has to be an explanation for this,” Jon-Tom said quietly. “A sensible explanation.”

  “Sure there is, mate,” said the Mudge, standing next to him. “I’ve been ’angin’ around you too long, and now I’m as loony as you are.”

  “Neither of you is loony,” said the two Mudges directly in front of them.

  As Jon-Tom blinked, or thought he blinked, the Mudges disappeared. They were replaced by something much worse: a pair of six-foot-two-inch-tall, indigo-and-green-clad Jon-Toms. He stared at the perfect duplicates of himself.

  “A trick, it’s a trick of some kind. An optical illusion.” Sure it was, but who was doing it, and why? They’d heard nothing during the night, and the sensitive Mudge would surely have been alerted by the encroachment of so many intruders. He turned to the otter.

  “You haven’t heard anyone on the island besides us?”

  “Not a soul,” the otter assured him. “But we sure ’as ’ell ’ave acquired some company.”

  “There has to be more than one of them at work here,” Jon-Tom muttered. “There’s too much happening simultaneously for a single creature to be responsible.”

  “You’re right there.” He turned on the voice, only to see three more Jon-Toms chatting amongst themselves. One leaned against his ramwood staff, another pointed, while the third studied his hands. But they stayed rooted in three spots. In fact, it seemed as if …yes, he was positive. The three new Jon-Toms occupied the same locations as three now-vanished Mudges. The otters had turned into Jon-Toms.

  “I don’t know who you are or what you are, but if you’re trying to frighten us, you’ve failed.”

  “Speak for yourself, mate,” Mudge mumbled under his breath.

  “Frighten you? Why should we want to frighten you?” inquired a trio of Mudges off to their left.

  Once more Jon-Tom’s mind underwent an unsettling shift in perception. The Mudges vanished, to be replaced by three trees. Each consisted of a trunk which topped out in a weaving, flexible point. Flowers grew from the base of the trunk. In the center of each was an indistinct, puttylike face. Jon-Tom could see eyes and mouths but no nose or chin. An ear protruded from each side, and a single thick, tapering vine grew from the top of the tree. Or maybe the trunk became the vine; Jon-Tom couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. Maybe there was no tree: just the single tall vine.

  “We don’t want to frighten you. We’re just practicing our art. It’s rare that we get an audience.” Jon-Tom turned and looked behind him. Three more Mudges had disappeared. They had been replaced by another pair of trees and a single giant butterfly. It fluttered but didn’t stray from its fixed position.

  “That’s so true,” the butterfly declaimed. “Our audiences are few and far between.”

  “Your art?” Jon-Tom murmured.

  “We’re mimics, imitators, mimes,” said one of the vines. “It started as a defense against the plant-eaters. Our trees are actually below the surface.” So these were vines he was looking at, Jon-Tom mused. “We protect our buried trees by imitating things the plant-eaters are scared of.”

  “It works very well,” said a giant caterpillar. “It’s hard to try and eat something that looks like you. Personally, being into photosynthesis, I never could understand the motile digestion cycle.”

  “Anyways,” said a couple of Daliesque nightmares, “it gets dull just sitting around waiting for something to try and dig up your tree. So we stay in shape by practicing different duplications. That gets boring, too, unless we get a new audience with a fresh perspective.” The nightmares vanished, were replaced by twenty pairs of applauding hands.

  “Come now,” said something like a small dinosaur, “what would you like to see us mimic? We’re the best, on this side.”

  “Not quite the best,” insisted a quartet of upside-down birds across from the boaster. “You could never do this.”

  “Fertilizer!” snapped the other vine, immediately becoming an astonishingly colorful assortment of dangling avians.

  “The feathers don’t run the right way.”

  “They do too!” The reversed birds all stared at Jon-Tom. “Tell us, human, do they look right to you?”

  He was slowly repacking his kit. “It’s hard for me to say. Not really my area of expertise. I guess they’re okay, for feathers.” He started toward the beach where they’d left their raft the night before. Mudge was right behind him.

  “Oh, you don’t have to be an expert.” Three vines interlocked to block their retreat. “All you have to do is bring a fresh perspective, to be a new audience. You’re the best we’ve had in a long time. Much too long. We can’t let you go now. We have so many imitations stored up. We need someone new to evaluate them for us.”

  Jon-Tom eyed the intertwined vines and took another cautious step forward. The vines sprouted clusters of six-inch-long, poisonous thorns.

  “What do you think, Mudge?”

  “I don’t know, mate. I ’aven’t judged any contests in a day or so.”

  “It won’t take long,” several other vines assured them.

  “Our repertoire isn’t infinite.”

  “We should finish in a couple of years,” said four giant rats.

  The rapid changes were making Jon-Tom slightly queasy as his brain struggled to keep up with his eyes.

  “We’d love to watch you perform,” he said slowly, “but we have important business of our own to attend to, and I’m afraid we can’t quite spare a couple of years.”

  “Oh, come on,” said two versions of himself, using their ramwood staffs to push him back toward the center of the circle, “you’ll enjoy it. Be good sports. We’d go hunting an audience if we could, but we can’t. We’re stuck to our trees.”

  “Yeah, don’t you sympathize with us?” said something Jon-Tom couldn’t even give a name to.

  “Sure I sympathize,” he said quickly. “We just don’t have the time to spare, tha
t’s all.” He spoke politely, while wishing he had a family-sized bottle of weed killer in his backpack.

  “Just sit back and relax,” said five startlingly voluptuous naked ladies from off to one side. “You’ll get used to it after a couple of months and then you’ll be with us in spirit as well as body.”

  “Be with you in spirit?” Mudge squeaked.

  “The spirit of the performance.”

  “Oh.” He let out a sigh of relief.

  “I’ll start, I’ll start!” declaimed one of the women. It became, quite remarkably, three fish swimming in empty air. This was only the first of countless astonishing imitations, as the stage shifted from one vine or group to another, the duplications traveling around the circle in dizzying profusion.

  If either Jon-Tom or Mudge showed signs of boredom, they found themselves rudely jostled back to attention by shouts or smells.

  Morning became afternoon and afternoon wore on into evening. When night crept over the island, the mimevines turned to mimicking creatures capable of bioluminescence.

  “This is all very entertainin’,” Mudge commented to his companion, “but I’d rather not make it me career, mate.”

  “Me neither. There has to be a way out of this.”

  “’Ow about makin’ a show o’ inspecting one of their bloomin’ imitations close-up-like and then makin’ a break for it between ’em? They’re stuck ’ere. Once past ’em, we ought to be able to make it easy to the raft.”

  “I’m not sure what they’d be capable of if agitated,” Jon-Tom muttered. “Maybe they can imitate things that throw toxic darts. I don’t want to find out. Not that it matters. They’re watching us too closely, and I don’t think we could surprise them as you suggest. Actually, they’re pretty decent folks, for a bunch of art-obsessed vegetables, but I think this is what’s meant by a captive audience.

  “They’re going to keep us here, judging their work, until they’ve run through a couple of years’ worth of imitations.”

  “We won’t be much use as judges if they let us starve.”

  “I don’t think they’ll let that happen. But we’re stuck here, unless …”

  “Unless wot?” wondered Mudge, flinching as a huge luminous crustacean materialized behind him.

  “That was a good one, wasn’t it?” asked the eight-pincered crab-thing. The vines flanking it opted to become delicate orange anemones.

  “Unless I can get them to imitate a certain something.” He climbed to his feet and found he was the center of attention. Ghostly glowing things eyed him intently.

  “Okay, everybody, listen up!” The vines swayed toward him. They’d been nothing short of polite, in their childlike fashion, but he didn’t think he’d get a second chance at this. Better get it right the first time.

  “You claim you can imitate anything?”

  “That’s right … that’s right…!” they chorused back at him. “Anything at all. Just name it. Or describe it.” They rippled and flared in the darkness, displaying everything from gymnastic feet linked to long arms to a talking rainbow.

  “Not bad.” Jon-Tom showed them his duar. “But how are you at reacting to a musical description instead of a verbal one? How are you at listening and imitating what you hear?”

  “How’s this?” said a giant, fleshy ear.

  “That’s not exactly what I mean. Can you mimic only what you hear in the music? Pure music, without descriptive words? Can you imitate feelings, for example?”

  “Try us, try us!” urged a chain of worms.

  So Jon-Tom sang the song he’d selected, a gentle, easygoing, relaxing song. He’d sung it once before, and it had put an entire pirate crew safely into the arms of Morpheus.

  It seemed to work here, too. The vines slumped, resembling for the moment nothing more complex than vines. When the song ended, he shouldered his backpack and nodded for Mudge to follow.

  They were almost to the edge of the clearing when two vines suddenly rose to interlock in front of him. They formed a very authentic-looking wall of giant razor blades.

  “Nice try,” said a couple of sarcastic Mudges from nearby. “We thought you might try and trick us. It won’t work. We’re as alert and aware of what’s goin’ on around us when we’re imitatin’ as we are when we’re not.”

  “So you might as well relax and enjoy the show,” four Jon-Toms told them. “When you’re hungry we’ll bring you berries. Real berries, not imitation.”

  Jon-Tom and Mudge reluctantly returned to their seats of honor in the center of the clearing. The kaleidoscopic procession of imitations resumed.

  Mudge leaned over to whisper to his companion. “I like those berries, mate, but if I ’ave to eat ’em for the next two years, I’ll turn into a bloomin’ berry meself. Unless I go bonkers first. You’re goin’ to ’ave to try some stronger kind o’ spellsingin’.”

  “I don’t know,” he murmured. “Next time they might take my duar away.” He made placating motions, raised his voice.

  “Okay, okay, you’ve convinced me we can’t get away, just as you’ve convinced me that we’re in the presence of the all-time masters of mimicry.” Mutters of appreciation came from around the circle. “But so far everything I’ve seen you mimic has been alive. Almost everything, anyway.”

  “Live things,” said a three-foot-tall cornflower, “are much harder to mimic than not-live things. There’s no challenge in imitating dead things.”

  “Then you haven’t been properly challenged. For example”—he bent to pick up a piece of feldspar— “can you imitate this? Not just any chunk of rock, but this specific piece, perfectly?”

  “He asks if we can imitate it,” said an irritated moose. Instantly Jon-Tom and Mudge were surrounded by a wall of feldspar slivers.

  “I have to admit, that’s pretty good.” Jon-Tom rose, tossed the fragment of rock aside. “Though I do see a little movement here and there. You’re all supposed to be rock-steady. So you think mimicking not-live things is easy, do you? Here’s a tough one for you.” He paused for effect. “Let’s see all of you imitate water.”

  This generated a flurry of uncertainty from the encircling vines, mixed with excitement at the prospect of a real challenge. They twisted and jerked, struggling with the necessary physical and mental contortions demanded by the request, until applause sounded from behind Jon-Tom.

  He turned. Several of the vines were applauding one of their colleagues. This vine had vanished. In its place was a stable, very narrow waterfall. The water never touched the earth, but the illusion remarkably real.

  “Congratulations! That’s more like it. “ Mudge gave him a nudge.

  “’Ere now, mate, let’s not go getting too interested in this business, wot?”

  Jon-Tom ignored him, spoke to the rest of the mimics. “Come on, surely that’s not the only one who can do it!”

  The vines continued to struggle. Soon he and Mudge were surrounded by waterfalls, bits of lake and pond and swamp.

  “I didn’t think you could do it,” he told them. “I’m impressed, I admit it.”

  “Don’t stop now,” said several of the vines, caught up in the spirit of the moment. “We can go back and finish our stored illusions anytime. Challenge us again.”

  “Yes, something harder this time!” said another.

  “I’ll try. “Jon-Tom rubbed his chin and tried to look intense. He already knew what he was going to say but he didn’t want his captors to know he’d thought it out carefully beforehand. If this was going to work, it had to appear spontaneous. Even to Mudge.

  “Okay,” he said, as though the idea had just occurred to him. He turned a slow circle, gesturing eloquently with his hands as he spoke. “You thought water was hard? Try this. I want you to imitate … ” and he let it hang tantalizingly for a moment, “emotions.”

  That froze the vines. Then they began contorting and jerking as they launched into vigorous discussion among themselves. Jon-Tom heard whispers of “Can’t be done … never been tried” inter
spersed with more positive assertions such as “Can we mimic anything or can’t we?… Can’t let the human think he’s stumped us … Sure it can be done … Just takes a lot of work…”

  “And to make it worthwhile,” Jon-Tom went on, “no more of this hanging around waiting for one of your companions to come up with the solution. You all take a chance on it simultaneously or it isn’t fair. Otherwise you’re just imitating the first one of you to be successful.” He indicated the initial waterfall. “You’ve got to try and do it together.”

  One of the vines fluttered toward him. “Fair enough, man. Go ahead and try us!”

  “Right. First emotion is … anger.”

  A brief hesitation, and then the vines began to darken. They turned deep, violent shades of crimson and yellow and orange. Some sprouted barbs and thorns that twitched and cut at the air.

  “Good. Very good,” Jon-Tom complimented them. The vines relaxed, congratulating themselves and conversing as they faded to their normal green hue. “No time to relax. I’ll go faster now and make it harder on you. Next emotion is laughter.”

  Vines ballooned, drifting in the air like pennants despite the fact that there was no breeze. Some displayed polka dots, others were checkered, some boasted stripes like barber’s poles, and one enterprising vine turned plaid.

  “Sadness!” Jon-Tom barked.

  The laughter vanished as the vines immediately went limp and stringy, turning deep pea-soup green or mauve or lavender. They began to drip false tears, swaying plaintively to an unheard dirge. They were getting better with practice and Jon-Tom changed emotions with increasing rapidity. Surprise, fear, elation, suspense, uncertainty…

  “’Ere now, guv,” said Mudge, “this party’s lots o’ fun, but don’t you think we ought to—?” Jon-Tom put a hand on the otter’s shoulder and squeezed hard, continued to shout suggestions.

  Faith, hope, charity, insanity …

  He spoke the last in the same tone as all the others, with the same inflection. The effect on the primed and responsive mimevines was shocking.