kwwayne@sprynet.com
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At As'taris's house they had set Paul up on the edge of the forest, in the shadows so they could look at him without being blinded, and talked at him nonstop, for if he could hear he needed to keep in touch with the world. They'd run through million-dollar smiles and six-million-dollar men, Diamond Jim this and diamond in the rough that, as well as endless variations on the word "rock."
John, who sat cross-legged on the ground, said "Any more of that and we'll enjoy the unique sight of watchin' a statue puke." The spurts of information had stopped, but now he could feel billions of invisible strings attaching to him, each connected to a bit of water. He twitched his fingers and felt the strings respond, and wondered what would happen if he started to pull. But now wasn't the time for experimentation. Especially not with the decision he'd made.
Slouching in his chair with his arms crossed and his heels digging into the grass, George threw a disgruntled glance at As'taris's shed. "What is Ass doing in there?" The elf had vanished into it hours ago, and since it was both Protected and soundproofed, they could only guess.
"Don't worry, mate," John called up to Paul, "once we've got you ungemmed you'll get your magic."
"How?" asked Ringo. "I mean, what d'ye think we should do? Mine just sort of showed up, y'know, so I haven't a clue as to how you'd actually work to get some."
"I was just handed mine," said George. "I went under a house to get a magic wand for this woman, but I didn't do it because I thought I'd get something."
"I thought I'd give him this." John rubbed the blue Kansael, though even as he spoke he got a strong sense that it didn't want to leave him, and he had to admit that he didn't particularly want to give it up either. Nor did he have a clue as to how to remove it. But he owed Paul a lot for neglecting him so badly. "I think he was supposed to've gotten it instead of the other thing, and I've already got me wings."
In a low voice George said, "Maybe he really isn't meant to have magic, or he'd have gotten the blue gem the first time."
"Then that," said John darkly, "is the best reason in the world for me to give it to him. Nobody's gonna mean anything for us except us."
At last As'taris came out of his shed carrying a sack made from one of Paul's shirts. He'd changed into stained old clothes—the first time they'd seen him dressed so casually. He strode over to the three and spread the shirt-bag out on the ground to display its contents: one silver and ten copper coins, a small uncut diamond, three gray rocks, and a pasty-white piece of flesh that smelled terrible.
"No eye of newt and hair of frog?" asked Ringo.
"Frogs don't have hair." The elf reached over and combed his fingers through Ringo's hair, came away with a few strands that he twisted together and stuck to Paul with a bit of sap.
Disgruntled, Ringo felt his head. "What is it about me hair that people want it so much?"
"At least you've proved you're not a frog," said George.
Checking over his spell components one more time, As'taris gathered the shirt back into a bag and took a deep breath. "Stand there," he said to the three, pointing left, and when George and Ringo stood up he threw the two chairs out of the way. When he had a clear line of sight to Paul, he closed his eyes and stiffened, holding the shirt-bag to his chest. He breathed raggedly and convulsed, but nothing happened, and he grimaced in annoyance and opened his eyes.
"What's wrong?" John said anxiously.
"The spell didn't catch; my spark wasn't hot enough." Sweat trickled down the elf's forehead; that had been no small effort on his part.
"Does that mean you can't do it?"
Possibly John sounded too eager, for he was no more enamored of As'taris than before and wasn't thrilled at having entrusted Paul to him. The elf glared at him and said indignantly, "Certainly I can burn the spell! Many spells fail, and this is no finger spell. I'll just cast until it catches." He made a great show of stiffening again and repeated the spell. In vain.
"I've never seen a spell fail," John muttered to the others. "The stupid fuck don't know what the fuck he's doin'."
"Oh, I have," said Ringo calmly. "Sometimes when I watched people in the city I saw them bugger their spells. They'd wave their arms and get angry when nothin'- " He broke off as As'taris strained uselessly a third time, after which he collapsed into a chair, panting.
John remained unconvinced. "Let's take Paul to one of them wizards in Tacky," he suggested loudly.
As'taris jerked in his seat. "I can burn it!" He jumped up, though he clearly hadn't had enough rest, and threw himself into position, convulsing like an epileptic, breathing like a bellows. He bobbed at the knees and shuddered much harder than before.
Fuselike, the musical sparkle of magic trilled in John's ears. "Look!" whispered George, plucking excitedly at John's arm. An opalescent aura shimmered into existence around the elf's body and grew until it was a perfect oval. In a tired, triumphant voice As'taris croaked, "Caught!" One more convulsion, and the aura flowed into the shirt-bag, which began to glow with a sunny yellow light.
The elf's proud grin faded into a puzzled frown as he looked down at the bag on his chest. "Yellow? It's not supposed to be yellow." Then he shrugged and held the bag at arm's length.
The yellow light exploded from the shirt-bag, bathing Paul. Like paint in water it penetrated the diamond, swirling, churning, working its way into Paul's core, tinting him bright gold. The shirt-bag dimmed and crumbled into ash; As'taris wiped his hands on his pants and stepped back to watch his spell finish up. And was surrounded by angry Earthmen. "What's wrong with yellow light?" demanded John.
"It's supposed to be blue light." As'taris was as close to embarrassment as they'd ever seen him. "But the color of the light might vary; I don't know. I've never fully burned this spell, just lit the fuse and snuffed it before the spellfire left me."
"You've never -"
A huge blast of heat whipped away John's sentence and forced everyone back. John threw up his hands to protect his face, and something quickly wove strings of water together to create a misty water field around him, keeping him cool. Somebody bumped into him, and he automatically extended the strings to cover whoever it was: Ringo, who was so startled by the sudden coolness that he nearly moved out of the water field. John had to grab his wrist (linking their water-strings together) and bawl "It's me! Where's Ge oh shit!" John slammed his other arm over his eyes, jamming his glasses painfully into his face.
Paul was a shapeless mass of white heat and light. Even with his eyes shut and covered, the light burned into John's brain; in fact, it refused to fade away, and through his panic he realized he was still seeing though his eyes were closed. But before he could figure out why, the ground started to shake, and a great rumbling filled the air, like a rocket was about to launch. The light blinked out in John's head and Ringo screamed "Get away!"
John agreed, and, turning, opened his eyes onto a blinding white afterimage. He stumbled forward on the trembling ground, half-dragging Ringo along behind him, unconsciously weaving his water field thicker as the rumbling grew and the heat increased. Abruptly he could see again, but the perspective was wrong; Ringo was holding onto his left hand, not his right, and he could still see Paul behind
WHAM!Paul exploded in a brilliant shower of fragments.
John and Ringo were thrown forward, landed with a splash on the thick water around them, and slid into the side of the house like otters on a wet rock. The wind roared around them; glass shattered. "Don't move!" screamed John, rolling on top of Ringo in a frantic effort to protect him further from the diamond shrapnel that buzzed overhead and peppered the walls behind them and, thank God, bounced off John's tightly woven water field.
Abruptly the wind faded; the buzzing stopped; and the world fell silent except for the hiss and crackle of fire and cooling glass.
Blink, John could see again, and something told him that by connecting water-strings with Ringo he had tapped into Ringo's mindsight; but he wished he hadn't, for a glassy black spot ringed by smoldering grass was all that remained of Paul. (And where was George?) The thinner trees near him had been disintegrated, and others, blackened and smoking, hung at crazy angles. One of the chairs lay at the other end of the lawn, burning. Thick black smoke hung in the air, stinking even through the water. Something splash-bounced off them from above: a shingle, jarred loose.
"Paul, Paul," Ringo babbled softly underneath John, "oh, God..."
John could only stare. He felt light and unreal, floating above the lawn as Ringo shifted perspective; he seemed to be watching a movie. He couldn't believe what he was looking at, what he had seen; nothing had really happened, had it? Paul was really perfectly fine, laughing somewhere as he put on a grand show; Paul had to be waiting for them in the house; Paul must be playing a joke, a trick, a game….
Then a strange, gulping whine began, soft at first, then louder. Wood ripped behind them and in the forest. Though still protected by water, John ducked, pushing Ringo's head down, as something whizzed overhead like a supersonic wasp; and then the air was full of diamond bits converging on the glassy spot, a huge, brilliant sphere of diamond dust collapsing into itself like a dying star, or, perhaps, a newly forming one.
John and Ringo held their breath.
When the sphere was about nine feet in diameter it was just diffuse enough to see through; at eight it was opaque and starting to take on a shape; at seven John stood up and moved away from Ringo, severing their connection so he could watch with his own eyes; and at six the ball gave off a final burst of dazzling light, made a whumping noise, and winked out.
Leaving.…
"PAUL!" John cried gladly, and ran to welcome him back.
Then he slowed and stopped, staring in fascinated disbelief.
Paul stood bewildered, slowly lowering his hand from the pose he'd been frozen in; but he glittered. Every hair on his body was diamond, from his once-black head hair to his eyelashes and eyebrows, his beard stubble, the hairs on his arms and chest, and even down to delicate wisps normally invisible to the casual eye—yet it fluttered in the breeze as readily as ordinary hair. His fingernails were also diamond, long and sharp, and John couldn't help it, the first thing out of his mouth was "Oh my God, Paul, don't pick your nose."
His left hand! It was back! And his magnificent diamond was in it. But as his fingers reflexively tightened on it, it disintegrated in a puff of sparkling dust. Slowly he opened his hand to let the dust spill out. Somehow it had coated his fingernails, so he rubbed his thumbnail with his index finger, but the surface stayed shiny. Then he noticed the hairs on the back of his hand, and his gaze traveled slowly, uncomprehendingly up his left arm, up his right arm, then to the blob of water. "Whaaaat happened?" he mumbled. (His teeth were diamond, too.)
"Oh, you just turned into a statue and blew up. Routine stuff." The blob began to laugh and cry at the same time—at least, it sounded like it was; it was hard to tell. "Oh, man, I thought you were dead! I'd hug you, but it looks like it might hurt."
"Paul!" shouted someone off to his right. Here came George, all smiling excitement, but he stopped short at the sight of Paul, and spared not a few glances for the blob, too.
"Where were you, then?" the blob asked, sounding relieved. "Or maybe I should ask, what were you?"
"I was a rock," said George. "I got thrown all the way back there." He pointed into the forest.
"`I am a rock, I am an iiii-sland.' I didn't know you could do that."
"Well, I am a rock star." George waved up and down at the blob. "I didn't know you could do that."
"Neither did I. Right, mate, we can compare notes later." The vague shadowy form inside the water seemed to turn to Paul. "How d'ye feel, Macca?"
"Uh," said Paul, finding the conversation less and less palatable as he came back to himself.
Now Ringo came plodding up, sodden and dripping from head to toe, hair and clothing plastered to his body. "You left the water running," he told the blob coolly. "When you ran off it all came down on me."
"Sorry," said the blob. "I've a lot to learn about this stuff. Right, how do I get rid of this? Okay…." It waved a shapeless arm and became John, grinning sheepishly as he fingered the rounded bottom of the blue teardrop gem in his chest.
Paul's blood pressure rose about a hundred points in half a second. That blue diamond, obviously the source of John's new magic, should have been his! How dare John keep it for himself! Even if Paul had stupidly given it to him, what did he need more magic for, when Paul had none? After that big diamond had turned out to be such a bust and caused Paul so much pain! Greedy bastard! Lying, cheating son of a bitch! Paul angrily opened his mouth to scream all these things and much, much more.
But the only thing that came out was "Haaaaaaaa…." as the expression on his face went from fury to wide-eyed astonishment. Something was… happening inside him.
The feeling began as a delicious tingling in his chest, a sizzling fuse sparking brighter and brighter, larger and larger, until it suddenly exploded in a tumult of fire that roared through his body with such exquisite ferocity that he screamed "God!" and bent almost double, hugging himself. He was a nuclear bomb at the millisecond before it breached its casing, a volcano ready to erupt from every appendage, even the tip of his nose! Through the red glow of excitement, he dimly noticed concerned figures approaching. "Get away!" he yelled at them, afraid that he would explode from sheer pleasure and pepper them with happy fragments. They promptly retreated.
After a few minutes, the feeling subsided to a dull (but still thrilling) roar, and he was able to straighten up, grin hugely at the faces peeping from behind distant trees, and yell to them, "I hope you felt like this when you got your magic!"
One by one they came out to look at him. They seemed pleased for him but wary, as if they didn't quite believe he was happy. "You're all right, then?" called Ringo.
Paul laughed. "All right? I feel fantastic! You wouldn't believe all the stuff that's bouncing around inside me! It's like—" he searched for an analogy they would appreciate "—it's like I just snorted coke or ate lightning or something. I'm all charged up! I feel like I could run around the world!" He gestured grandly and accidentally hit a charred tree with his left hand.
With a screech of ripping wood, the tree broke in half, showering splinters everywhere. The top half of the tree rocketed into the forest, breaking branches off other trees as it flew, finally landing maybe fifty feet away in a tangle of leaves and limbs.
"Jesus!" said John. He quickly rubbed his glasses on his shirt and replaced them, squinted at the wreckage. "Jesus!"
George said "Didn't break too many trees when I used coke."
Ringo just gaped.
Paul stared at the tree, at the distant top half, at his hand, at the others, back at the tree again. Did I do that? I couldn't have, the tree must have been ready to break, it must have been burned through—but then, why did the tree-piece fly so far? And why didn't his hand hurt? He'd felt it hit the wood, of course, but he might as well have struck a pillow for all the injury it had caused him.
Intending to inspect the fallen piece of the tree, he took a step toward it—and sprang into the air as if he'd been blasted from a cannon. "Hey!" he yelled in surprise and panic as the ground dropped away beneath him—thud! He slammed into a tall tree hard enough to sink in slightly and stay there as the tree creaked and groaned and fell over with a mighty crash. Jarred loose, Paul rolled off onto his back right next to the tree. Except that he was damp and slightly brown from sap and water that had been squeezed out of the wood, he was entirely unhurt by the little misadventure. Starting to feel a little giddy, thinking Finally! Finally!, he reached over and grabbed the trunk with both hands. His fingers sank into the squealing wood so easily—could a rotten strawberry have been any more yielding?—that he almost squeezed it in two before he lifted the tree over his head (it seemed about as heavy as a log of firewood) and turned his ecstatic face to the others for judgment. "Look! Look!"
The pressure of his hands grew too great; with a final tortured shriek, the tree broke in two; one piece squirted to the left, one to the right, and Paul was left with hands full of wood pulp. He wiped them on his shirt, which ripped clean off at the first stroke, exposing his diamond-fuzzed chest. He grimaced at the sorry rag hanging on his finger and flicked it up. It soared into the air like it was tied to an arrow and caught on a high branch. And then he started to laugh, and the ground shook beneath him, and the nearby trees quivered.
A dream, he had to be dreaming; how else could he have such power? How was it possible?
Distantly he heard John said, "Huh, and I thought I was Superman." All three of the others were watching Paul from way down the front lawn—they knew a hazardous area when they saw one.
The name Superman knocked around in Paul's brain and gave birth to a wild notion. He sat up—which sent him somersaulting through the forest to knock over another tree, and he ended up flat on his face. When he tried to push himself up, he punched holes in the ground and soared backwards into yet another tree. It took him several tries with increasing delicacy on his part, and rather more damage to the woods, before he finally ended up in a sitting position. From there, he was able to stand up by slapping the ground lightly with one hand, thus propelling himself a few feet straight up into the air, whereby he was able to land on his feet. He then took careful, mincing steps to the lawn that only carried him thirty or forty feet each instead of the God-knew-how-far-he-might-go if he took a "normal" step; he still left deep footprints and shook the ground each time he landed.
As he was going in the direction of the others, they backed up again. He gestured at them to come closer, but George yelled, "No thanks, if you tread on our feet we're not gonna have feet any more."
Paul was a little disappointed, but he could appreciate their point of view. "Okay. Watch this!" He crouched down, gathering himself. "Up, up "
"Oh, no!" groaned John, covering his face with his hand (but peering between his fingers). "Paul, don't say it!"
" and AWAY!"
And Paul jumped.
No.
He JUMPED!
The ground beneath him erupted in a shower of dirt and pulverized rock, and he soared straight up with his arms over his head and his face turned towards the sky, hair blasted back by the wind.
UP, "I'm flying! I don't believe it!" he screamed, looking down quickly to see the house and the others dwindle to ant size.
UP, "I'm flying!" What freedom! No wonder John never came down and George spent so much time as a bird. Poor Ringo, earthbound, never to know this feeling!
AND
down? "I'm not flying?" Paul's face fell as he began to drop despite his best efforts to remain aloft. "Ah, shit." But at least he could land impressively, and he crossed his arms in an exaggerated show of confidence in his ability to survive the drop. He watched the ground expand hugely and rush up to greet him, and
WHAM!
The ground shook considerably; clouds of dirt billowed up. A mild shock traveled up Paul's legs, not at all painful, indeed rather pleasant.
When the air cleared, he was waist deep in the ground at the center of a crater. The others peered over the edge. When they saw he was all right, they chanted "It's a nerd, it's a pain, it's Stupidman!"
"Jealous!" said Paul. He twisted around in the dirt to loosen himself (shredding what remained of his pants, which wasn't much), then jumped lightly out, lightly being another thirty-foot hop that landed him near the others, spraying them with dirt before they scattered in terror. "Give a fella some warning!" shouted Ringo, who, between the recent activities of John and Paul, was now pretty muddy.
"Sorry." Actually, naked, dirty, afraid to move with the others still fairly close, Paul was becoming a bit frustrated with his magic. Strong was great, but strong to the point where he couldn't perform the simplest physical tasks without causing chaos was ridiculous. Not to mention the fact that the others had had a much easier time of it when they first got their magic. How come they can just snap their fingers and do their stuff perfectly, while I'm stuck playing human bulldozer?
But he had to admit, looking at the wreckage of lawn and forest, that he had at least made an even trade-off. Subtle he wasn't, but the sheer force he wielded.… Give him a pound of uncut diamonds over one small polished stone any day. Once he tamed himself, fought down and bottled up and released his strength in carefully controlled doses—wouldn't he be something, just? Paul grinned, feeling much better. It was worth the wait.
At once he felt an irresistible urge. He turned slowly, found himself facing the cliff
and The Ocean.
Big blue jewel to match his little one!
"Erk," he exhaled through a drunken, rapt grin. His eyes went all soft and misty. "Ooh." His hand fluttered up to touch the Kansael. A step toward the cliff, and then he was loping for it, dancing toward it really, with his arms outstretched as if to embrace a lover. At the edge he stopped and swept his arms up majestically, pulling at a billion strings. A huge pseudopod of a wave erupted from the water, enveloped him, and carried him into the welcoming sea.
"Well," said George philosophically, "if he didn't, he's screwed." He flashed a hilarious grin, which shrank into thoughtful contemplation. "This has been one hell of a day, hasn't it?"
"Hey!" exclaimed Paul, indignant at the loss of his audience. Whose debut was this, anyway? But he had nothing to show them when they glanced over, at least nothing they hadn't already seen. He wished he had some steel bars to pretzel or safe doors to rip open.
John's cry floated up from the ocean: "Look at me!" Paul pursed his lips as he watched George amble to the cliff while Ringo closed his eyes and started to laugh. May as well get him over with, he decided sourly. He did have a wary interest in John's new magic, that-which-could-have-been-his; he wanted to make sure it wasn't as strong as his. Taking ultra-careful steps, moving his feet so little that he was almost just imagining that he walked, he bounced to the cliff in ten-foot hops, and wound up with his toes hanging precariously over the edge, so he had a beautiful view of what John was doing.
Which was running around on the surface of the water, laughing hysterically. "Look at me, look at me, I'm Jesus!"
Just then the ground gave way under Paul, and as he slid, bumped, and tumbled to a painless crash on the beach, he vowed I am going to practice day and night until I am as good with my magic as they are with theirs.
But he really was having a damn good time.
At least he was until Ringo discovered As'taris lying face down in a bush: hairless, baked to a turn, and very dead.
+Rough on the elf, though.+
[Paul's happy; that's the important thing. I just hope he can adjust. I still wish he'd gotten the Kansael like we planned.]
~No, I agree with the Gods. The Kansael's strength is proportional to the strength of the wearer, so John was the logical choice. 'Course, it might have been cool if he got it now.~
+When do you want to start Operation V?+
[After Paul gets acclimated.]
~Geez, Shag! That could take forever!~
[Do you seriously think he can go anywhere like this?]
~Nah, I guess not.~
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