With Strings Attached

by D. Aviva Rothschild

©1998

*14*

NIGHT MOVES

As'taris had a few more things to show the four when they emerged from the treasure cellar, pockets stuffed with coins and Ringo sporting a matched set of three platinum-and-sapphire rings that fit him perfectly. The elf took them to a corner of the kitchen where stood what appeared to be a pink granite chopping block, about waist-high. He had each man lay his hand on the block's cool smooth surface for five seconds; this, he informed them curtly, keyed them to the house's protective spells so they could open the front door without being killed. Of course, the statement instantly made the four crazy, as none of them had felt anything special while touching the stone. They pestered As'taris constantly with "Are you sure?" until he grabbed Paul's hand (he was surprisingly strong) and slapped it against the front door, snarling "Are you dead?" Paul had to concede that he wasn't.

Next the elf took them down a path through the forest that connected to a road that led "warm" (down the coast, presumably south) to farms and, eventually, Ta'akan, and "cold" (up the coast, presumably north) to wild-looking higher country. "If you don't want to walk to Ta'akan," said As'taris, "the naba-aban drives past and will take you there and bring you back for 2 golds each way. There it is now." He pointed to a two-horse wagon just visible on the "warm" end of the road.

Now, walking about five miles to the city and back didn't appeal to the four, but the naba-aban didn't look terribly attractive either. "Can't we use the boat, then?" Ringo asked plaintively.

"No!" snapped the elf. "I've done what Grunnel asked; I have nothing more to say to you. I'm going back to Ta'akan." He turned on his heel—he was extremely graceful, like a ballet dancer—and strode back along the forest path, disappearing quickly from view and leaving four disgruntled Earthmen who were wishing to hell they hadn't taken the old wizard up on his offer.

"Still," said Paul, jingling the coins in his pocket, "things aren't perfectly dreadful."

By the time they got back to the house, As'taris had taken the boat and was gone. Unsure what their responsibilities vis-à-vis the elf amounted to, and also wanting to get a start on their chores, they decided they'd better go to the city and look for him. Anyway, they didn't want to spend the rest of the day hanging around the house, especially with a city of wonders just down the road! So they ran back up the forest path and caught the naba-aban, which was just approaching. They were the only passengers, so the female driver, after asking them if they had anything to sell and taking eight gold pieces from them, promptly turned the wagon around and headed back to Ta'akan.

The wagon was pretty reasonable, with seats along the sides and clean multicolored rugs on the floor. Either because of good suspension or magic, it didn't jounce at all, but drove as smoothly as a Rolls-Royce on ice. Along the way to Ta'akan, they picked up half-a-dozen other people, four long-haired tirin armed with baskets for the day's shopping, and two weary-looking skahs from an inn. Every one of these individuals asked the four the usual question, and every one ignored them when they admitted to having nothing for sale.

George leaned back against the side of the wagon with a contented grunt. "God, I could get used to this."

As'taris notwithstanding, the first thing they did when they reached Ta'akan was search out a poster shop.

Paul's text, and he was proud that he remembered to use "sar," although the man who took their order had to tell them whose house it really was and spell Brox's name for them. John added sketches of Lyndess along the sides. They bought two hundred illusion-posters, which couldn't be torn down or defaced (without more effort than anyone was likely to put into it, anyway), and at the end of twenty days would fade away. All four were pleased by this ecological soundness and insta-neatness; "We need these on Earth," said Paul.

With the shopkeeper's promise to get the posters up by tomorrow following them out, they left the shop feeling like they had finally done something positive towards getting home. The next task was finding their crazy elf charge. However, the day wasn't even half over and was gorgeous to boot, the four still had pocketfuls of money, every shop looked inviting, and As'taris wasn't likely to die in the city—after all, hadn't Grunnel said the elf was unable to initiate a fight? And it was surely possible that As'taris had gone shopping, so the four had a duty to check inside every retail establishment between here and the docks.

Which is what they did.

They left a number of shop owners dazed by the speed at which they could spend money on clothing, shoes, candy, magic, magic, and magic. They all but cleaned out "La'etar's Tirin Magic Shop." Spoons that reddened on contact with poison, fire- and extinguish- stones, always-warm bowls, always-cool cups, healing potions... if it had a spell on it, they bought it.

And the others had to pry George out of a gardening store, cradling a bag of mixed flower seeds and babbling "They're totally new kinds! I'll be the only one in the whole world to have them!"

Eventually they found As'taris, exactly where they had expected him to be: watching street fights. As two women feinted and lunged and never quite hit each other, the young elf squatted close by, watching their feet with complete concentration. When the four drew a bit closer, they saw his lips moving, though whether he was providing himself a running commentary on the fight, taunting the combatants, or just twitching his mouth in excitement, they couldn't tell.

When the fight ended after one woman pinked the other in the arm, As'taris stood up and glared around desperately, looking into everyone's eyes.

"I think he wants someone to start fighting him," Paul said softly.

"Oh, Christ," muttered John, "I'm not rushin' in there to save As's arse."

"Nobody's taking him up on it, though," said George. "Look, they think he's funny."

The four stood silently, enjoying the spectacle of the elf's pride deflating as he watched all his potential opponents, many grinning or chuckling, turn away and move to another fight that was just starting up. After a few seconds, As'taris himself drifted over to the new fight and squatted again to watch the combatants' footwork.

"I bet he does this every day," said Ringo.

"Yes," said Grunnel, coming up behind them and startling them badly. "But the sars won't fight As because they know Brox and I would be angry if As was killed and the curse was lifted."

"Oh, no, don't want that curse lifted," said John.

Completely missing the sarcasm, the wizard nodded. "We don't have time for a feud now. Er-h'o, are you shadowing As to prevent sar's being killed? You don't need to. If As is killed in the city, someone will tell me, and you don't have to prevent As dying, just let me know if sar does. Er-h'o, are you hungry? I came to eat with As, but I'd rather eat with you olyrr-sars. I have more questions for you."

Although they really thought Grunnel had some peculiar priorities concerning the elf, the four (especially John) were more than happy to take him up on his offer. At a little tavern-café nearby, each side pumped the other for information. Grunnel asked them more about Earth culture, gods of Earth, and the philosophies behind Paul and George's refusal of meat, which he frankly admitted he found unfathomable. In turn, the four queried him about magic, Ta'akanian/Baravadan culture and history, and what constituted monsters (something that had begun to worry John). Just as Grunnel had been amazed by the concept of vegetarianism, so too were the four astonished to discover that there were no forms of law enforcement or government in Ta'akan, or anywhere on the entire continent of Baravada. The wizard sort of understood the concepts, as the now-vanished Tahil had imposed their laws on the native population, and his loathing of that unwanted order permeated his voice as he spoke of it. The skahs and tirin, he informed them proudly, had done as they pleased since their creation.

"How come you don't go killing each other?" Ringo asked.

"We had monsters and Tahil to fight, so why kill sars?" said the wizard. "To kill tirin meant less food and clothing, and killing tirin is dull because they make poor opponents. To fight skahs meant wasting strength on sars while Tahil were enslaving us." He shuddered as he said this last.

"What d'ye consider monsters, then?" asked John.

"Not you," Grunnel said with a grin, which almost made John fall off his backwards chair. "I am an illusion-wizard," the old man explained. "That cloak—rusty thing! It smolders weakly—it's as transparent as glass to me. Er-h'o, you're a sar, not a monster."

"Thanks," said John, so shaken that he completely lost his appetite and his tongue while he contemplated what might have happened if he had qualified as a monster.

When they returned to the house that evening, loaded with packages and groceries, they found that As'taris had preceded them. As they unpacked and somewhat uncertainly began to prepare dinner (George, the only decent cook in the group, was drafted into this duty), they got a good glimpse of the routine the elf followed while at home. He practiced archery, shooting into a tiny, distant target he'd set up at the edge of the greensward; he practiced swordplay against a tree in the forest, using a blade that he summoned out of nowhere and that vanished when he dropped it; he jogged back and forth along the rim of the cliff (which caused the four enough concern that at least one of them watched him constantly while he did this); he vanished into the aliser, the little shed in front of the house, and did God knew what; and finally he came into the house, made a sandwich by carving slices off a magically preserved ham and a magically preserved loaf of bread, and went into the main room to lie on the couch and read a book. The four had rarely seen a better example of an angry caged animal. He was also, they realized, quite lonely. However, any sympathy they might have had for him evaporated when Paul approached him about where to do the washing-up, and he turned on his side, facing the cushions, and said,

"Don't talk to me, tirin."

So they didn't.

The next day was pretty much similar to the previous one, with one important exception. After a comfortable night's sleep—except John, who hadn't slept much—they donned their new Ta'akanian clothes, colorful and silky—except John, who came down in the same drawstring pants and cloak he'd worn for several days now. As'taris had already left, so they decided to grab breakfast in the city—except John, who gobbled down the remainder of the ham and bread. They left the house without a backwards glance—except John, who gave the cliff a long look before hastening to catch up with the others.

In the naba-aban he was quiet and distracted, staring at the scenery and replying to the others' cheery comments with short sentences or even monosyllables. He didn't seem to be in a bad mood—a faint smile played about his lips most of the time—so the others let him alone.

When they reached Ta'akan, they were pleased to see that the posters, as promised, were up, often on the sides of houses. They wondered if part of the poster fee went to the homeowners, but they really didn't care. After eating (John ate again) they did some more shopping, picking up more things here and there that they'd forgotten or that caught their eye. This time they didn't buy nearly as many magical items, having found that there wasn't anything exciting about ever-sharp knives and the other household items they'd gotten the day before. As Ringo ruefully put it, "It's really not much different from technology stuff, is it? Just the power source is different."

John had perked up a bit after his second breakfast, but by lunch time (which they spent with Grunnel again, this time indoors) he was even quieter than before, and more cranky. He smiled when the illusion-wizard, after some pleading by Ringo, Paul, and George, demonstrated his prowess by making a shadowy tree grow in the center of their table, but otherwise he seemed not to pay much attention to anything. At one point he excused himself to go take a pee, but he was gone for a long time, and when he returned he came into the restaurant only to tell the others that he'd be waiting for them outside.

Of course, the others finished as quickly as they could, made their apologies to Grunnel (who seemed bemused that they felt the need to say such things), and went out to see what was bothering John. They found him pacing around, rather like As'taris in that he had a trapped-animal look to him. But when they asked what the matter was, he merely said,

"I feel premenstrual."

Although this got a laugh, it wasn't much of an answer. "D'ye wanna go back to the house, then?" asked Paul.

John contemplated a fat, fluffy cloud. "Yeah, I think so. You lads can stay here—I don't wanna spoil your day."

But they were all worried about him now, and none of them liked the idea of his traveling back to the house by himself or, indeed, of splitting up at all. Grunnel might claim that skahs didn't casually murder tirin, but what if some skahs out there didn't hold to that unwritten rule?

So they all went back, walking up the road until the naba-aban appeared and then hopping on for the rest of the journey. By unspoken agreement, Paul, George, and Ringo left John to his own devices, knowing that to force the issue was to assure no answer (and, by now, guessing at what was wrong but not wanting to go there). Instead, hoping to draw him out by talking about interesting stuff, they discussed the things they'd learned from Grunnel that day, particularly the mechanism of how the streets were kept clean in Ta'akan. Every month, as long as enough citizens paid them, a group of wizards laid spells on the whole place that made trash disappear at midnight. Occasionally the wizards felt underpaid and didn't cast the spells; the Ta'akanians were quickly reminded how much they disliked garbage; and money flowed into the wizards' coffers.

They were still discussing the implications of this system when they were dropped off.

"The thing is, I don't think voluntary taxation'ud work on Earth," Paul said as they walked through the forest to the house. "There's just too many people who don't look far enough ahead and see the problems that'd come up if they didn't pay."

"But if they stopped the schools and the garbage and everything else for a month, people would start to realize it," argued George. "Wouldn't you rather pick and choose what you pay taxes into? We could make all the crap vanish just by not paying for it. We could get rid of armies and useless government bullshit and -"

"I would, but the trouble is, there's lots of good stuff that needs money, and what happens to the poor if the rich decide not to pay that month?" Paul looked at John to see if he had anything to add, but John didn't seem to have been listening. He was walking a few paces ahead of the others.

Ringo, whose interest in this topic had been exhausted some miles back, took a glowstone from his canvas shopping bag and closed his fist around it so that light sprayed from between his fingers. "I wouldn't've believed I'd be bored by magic, but man, this stuff is trivial. Still, d'ye think we can take any of it back with us?"

Paul shrugged. "I dunno. You read stories where a chap brings technology to a magic place and it doesn't work, and vice versa—but wouldn't it be smashing if we could?" He grinned.

John stopped suddenly, forcing the others to stop as well or plow into him. He turned to face them, cocked his head, and said, with an enigmatic smile, "I'll have to."

There it was.

The tension level among the four skyrocketed. Paul attempted to bring it down with a little laugh. "Right, I'm sure you'll find some way to get fixed up, they've got just about everything here."

The smile faded away. "I don't need fixin' up," John said softly, dangerously.

Paul was starting to get alarmed. "Oh, come on, you're never going back like that."

"I am." Leaf-shadows bobbed on John's reddening face. His hands tightened on the bag he was carrying.

Paul was definitely alarmed now. "Be reasonable, man. If you show up on Earth like that, a hundred scientists'll take you apart. They'll put you in a bloody jar. You've got to have them removed."

"Fuck off! " John threw his bag at Paul. Luckily it was full of clothes and didn't hurt. "How dare you even suggest such a thing! Jesus fucking Christ! You can't stand it that you can't fly, so you try to fix it so I can't! Well, piss off! Leave me alone!"

John tore his cloak off and flung it on the ground at Paul's feet, then turned around, waggled his wings, and stomped towards the cliff. The others watched in mounting horror as the bizarre body with John's head on it, which had been kept safely out of their minds by the black cloak but was now back to torment them, neared the edge—and sat, kerplunk! on the ground, hugging his knees, staring at the water and the sky.

Paul mopped his forehead with a shaking hand. "Oh God, God, I thought he might really jump off."

"I don't want to see him fly," said George, looking at the ground. "I really don't."

"If I thought he could I wouldn't have been so scared." Paul picked up John's package and, after some hesitation, the cloak.

"You don't think he can?" asked Ringo.

"Uh-uh. You can't put wings on a man and expect him to fly. He's balanced wrong. That's why that deal with Lyndess didn't work out. He probably cracked when he first got the wings—can't blame him—and decided he could fly. He led Lyndess on as long as he could, but she figured it out in the end. And deep down he knows they're useless," Paul added. "That's why he wasn't crazy enough to jump off now."

Ringo gazed at the still, exotic figure, dark against the blue of the sky and ocean. "Should we do anything?"

"No, let him come to us. That'll mean he's ready for some help."

John was listening, and if he hadn't been speechless with rage he would have explained that no, he wasn't crazy enough to jump off the cliff, not for any of Paul's dumb reasons, but because it was too low. How far had he fallen that night before he caught the wind? A quarter of a mile at least. And this cliff was probably no more than 100 feet high. He wanted very badly to fly—all day the desire had been building, the claustrophobia mounting, until he couldn't keep up the pretense of civility any longer—but he was not suicidal. Not yet.

He also hadn't slept in three days, because the same ears that allowed him to hear the conversation a hundred yards away were also real good at picking up and magnifying every stupid trivial sound into a cacophonous choir that woke him every time he started to doze off. When awake, he could regulate the noises somewhat, focus on the important ones and tune out the trash, but this ability fled as soon as his consciousness did.

Anyway, he would never forgive Paul, never stop hating him for what he'd tried to take away and for being so right, so damnably, painfully right; he could not return to Earth with wings.

-CLICK-

[I can't look. Is it working?]

~Course it is. It wasn't a fatal bug, just a glitch in the program. It'll take a moment for the picture to come up, but all the indicators are on, see?~

[Phew. How much time passed? Oh, Gods, almost two C'hovite days.]

+All alive and uninjured.+

[I know, but mental trauma doesn't show on the status board.]

+Shag, would you watch your tail? You keep whapping my legs.+

[Sorry. Oh, why doesn't that picture hurry up?]

+Really, you worry too much about them. They're pretty competent, at least to the extent of staying out of fights.+

~Here comes the picture!~

[Get your head out of the way, Je—oh! oh, Oh, OH, OH! What from the Seven Holes of Hell is THAT?]

~Ta dah!~

Midnight, or thereabouts. Paul lay on his bed, hands clasped behind his head, knees thrust into the air. He couldn't sleep for thinking; a nasty idea nagged at him. He might not go back with us. If he has to choose between Earth and those wings—Paul was going to change the name of his band the second he got home—would he stay?

He propped himself higher on the pillows. If he does stay, how will we explain it to everyone? (For that matter, they were going to have fun explaining where they'd been and why they were young. But that was irrelevant right now.) 'Oh, sorry, he grew wings and stayed behind.' Right. God, they might think we killed him or something. I know I would.

-scrape-

On the other hand: Maybe he'll come to. If we can get someone to convince him he can't fly, like Grunnel, who ought to know—or maybe we could slip him a mickey and have the wings removed while he's under.

-scrape-

Paul shifted guiltily. He'd hate me for the rest of his life. But which is worse, that or him getting carved up in a laboratory? Or worshipped? Now there's a splendid idea! Some religious fanatic -

-scrape- #Twang#

That one he heard. What the hell was that? He sat up and peered into the gloom, right hand fumbling for the always-lantern by his bed. Sounds like the guitar is sliding down the wall.

He got the cover off the lantern. Light flooded the room. The guitar wasn't sliding down the wall; it was three feet from the wall, straight up, and sliding along the floor.

He stared at it, rubbed his eyes, stared at it again.

No, the angle wasn't deceiving him.

The damned thing was coming towards his bed!

Paul froze, barely breathing. This wasn't trivial magic! His hands gripped the blanket tighter and tighter as the haunted instrument approached.

It stopped and rotated, bobbing back and forth as if looking for something. When it faced Paul it snapped straight up, then jerked to a start again, approaching the bed purposefully.

Help, thought Paul, too frightened to scream. He began to inch to the other side of the bed.

Closer and closer it came, three feet from the bed—two feet—one foot—half a foot—(Paul teetered on the edge of the bed now)

and it halted, apparently confused by the height of the bed.

Paul held his breath.

Noiselessly the guitar rose into the air, glided over the mattress, and settled itself next to Paul.

"Yaagh!" Paul toppled off the bed, yanking the cover with him. The guitar slid across with the cover and jutted over the side of the bed, looming over Paul like the fist of God.

Unparalyzed, Paul scrambled away on hands and knees, then sprang up and wrenched his door open and lurched out of the room. Was it following him? He dared a peek back. It hadn't moved from the bed. "Jesus!" he panted, leaning against the wall as he shuddered with fear and nervous laughter. "What a crazy thing. Jesus!"

A door creaked. Paul twisted round violently, but it was only Ringo standing in his doorway, clad in a new brown nightshirt that reached to his knees. "Paul?" he whispered. "Are you okay? I heard you fall - "

"The guitar jumped into bed with me," Paul said, and he outlined what happened.

Ringo listened sleepily. "You sure it wasn't a nightmare?"

"It's in me bed now, if you'd care to look."

So Ringo looked, and there it was, and he scratched his stubbly chin and said "Well, that's weird."

"I know," Paul snapped, testy now that the shock had passed.

"Did it try to hit you, then?"

"I didn't stay long enough to find out." Cautiously Paul poked the instrument, but it was as dead as it was supposed to be.

Ringo yawned. "Maybe you walked in your sleep and put it there and dreamed the rest."

"You don't believe me, do you."

"Yes I do, but I dunno know what to do about it, I'm real tired, I can't deal with this right now, can we discuss it in the morning?"

"What if it starts up again?"

"Wake up Ass, I guess. And wake me up. I'd like to see it."

Ringo shuffled back to his room while Paul wondered if he really had dreamed the whole episode. It was such a crazy thing to happen—but then, this was a crazy place.

Still incredibly tense, he hovered in the hallway outside his room for a while, trying either to get up the nerve to go back in or to spend the night on the couch in the big, empty, shadowy, drafty main room downstairs. Dammit, why didn't he ask Ringo if he could stay in his room? He didn't even consider awakening As'taris; the elf would probably just bark at him to get out of his room.

Finally he forced himself back into his room. However, there was no way he was falling asleep or even getting back into bed. Grimly, he sat himself down in a chair and stared at the bed. If that guitar moved so much as a millimeter, he was going to yell loud enough for them to hear him back on Earth.

Some hours later, as the first feeble smear of dawn lit the sky, a gentle internal tugging awakened George, lying with his face buried in the pillow. "Mmph," he mumbled. "Damn." He had to pee. And the house didn't have a toilet, or even an outhouse. Chamber pots, even magic ones—ugh! Think I'll just pee out the window, he thought sleepily. He pushed himself -

No, he did not push himself up. He pushed through empty air, his arm going straight down. Startled into more wakefulness, he drew it back up. Man, I'm close to the edge of the bed. He slid his right leg off the side of the -

Where's the side of the bed? His leg jutted out as far as he could stretch it, and it wouldn't fall. George groped for the bed's edge,

and his hand slid under his thigh and dangled loosely.

There was nothing under his leg except air.

But his leg wasn't falling.…

With his other hand George pushed on the pillow. That seemed solid enough; what was going on? He propped himself up, elbows on the pillow, and clunk! "Ow!" He rubbed his head, looking angrily at the ceiling.

The ceiling?

Refusing to comprehend, George goggled at it… and then he felt his blanket slip off him and -plooomph- fall down.…

His eyes were going to stay exactly where they were, he was going to look at the ceiling until everything became normal again, his head turned, nonono, stopitstopit, look down there the floor and the night table and the blanket and the bed he was floating six feet above the bed.…

George yipped and tried to hurl all of himself on the pillow, but his legs flailed about, finding no purchase. In a panic he thrust his knees down, something stopped existing, and his lower half dropped! "Aaaaah!" he shrieked, clutching the pillow for dear life as he swung down like Tarzan on a vine. His feet slammed into the wall, pain lanced up his ankles, and he swung back, shuddered to a stop.

For one timeless moment George hung from a pillow suspended in mid-air. Then:

"GET ME DOWWWN!" Urine ran down his legs, soaking his underpants and dripping on the bed, but he hardly noticed as he thrashed, a hooked fish on an invisible line. "GET ME DOWWWN!"

The pillow gave way! George dropped, landed on the bed on the balls of his feet, and bounced forward into the wall; only the pillow saved him from a bloody nose. Stunned, he slid down the wall on the pillow, landing on his knees.

His door burst open and people rushed in, crowded round, turned on the light. "What happened? Are you hurt?" (Ringo) "Did something get into bed with you?" (Paul) "Why are you so noisy, tirin?" (As'taris)

George couldn't answer; he knelt pressed against the wall with his face buried in the pillow. "I'm down," he whispered, looking slowly back at the mass of people, the naked elf and the other two in their contrived nightshirts. His marbles, scattered but not lost, began rolling back to their assigned places. "Did you see?" he said to the air. "I was floating."

"There's something in this house!" Paul said triumphantly to Ringo as they helped George into a chair. "It had to've been the same thing that moved the guitar!"

Before Ringo could reply, As'taris swung around to them. For once he was animated. "Something else happened?" he demanded. "Was that why you made noise before? Tirin, tell me everything that happened!"

As Paul and, shakily, George told their stories, the elf smiled for the first time since they'd met him. Suddenly he started jumping around the room, waving his arms and shrieking like he'd scored the winning goal.

The three gaped. There wasn't a whole lot that could have turned their minds from the bizarre events of the night, but Ast'aris had found a way. "Is what happened tonight good?" Paul asked when there was a lull in the noise. "We'd rather like to know what's going on."

"Brox has returned!" Ast'aris laughed as he danced into the hall.

"And aren't we just looking forward to that," said George, wet, unhappy, embarrassed, and mystified.

Better than something else, thought Paul, abruptly suffering from an obnoxious idea in which John played a central and terrible role.…

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