Mouvar's Magic Page 4

  Heln was holding a large green bottle. She put it on the night table and rubbed her hands briskly together, warming them.

  There was no putting it off further. He stood, with difficulty, and pulled off the nightdress. Everything, absolutely everything, hurt.

  "We'll start with the arms," Heln said, grabbing his aching biceps as gently as a torturer. Her hands moved briskly, cupping the muscles, smoothing. The oil felt tingly and warm, but the soreness was still there.

  "Now on your belly! I'm told that's the best way for this."

  "The sheets will get oily."

  "I'll wash them. Belly flop, hero."

  He submitted as graciously as he could. Now and then an "uhh" or an "ouch" escaped him, but for the most part he suffered her ministrations without sound. When she was finished he felt a little bit human and was ready though by no means eager to get dressed. Especially since he knew she would not allow him to return to sleep.

  He grabbed a fresh pair of undershorts Heln had laid out, put his legs in them, and stopped. Something wasn't right.

  "Heln, these aren't my shorts. They must be your father's or Mor Crumb's."

  "Look in the mirror."

  He did, astonished at a new flatness. His belly, his enormous troublesome belly, was gone! Furthermore, his flesh, though he hadn't realized it until now, was firmer than it had been in years.

  "Gods, Heln," he said, using one of Mor's favorite expressions, "the old witch really does know a little magic!"

  She smiled. "I had come to that conclusion myself. You look great, Kelvin."

  He would have been pleased if he still didn't hurt so much.

  After a too short breakfast and a short drive with sister and brother-in-law and wife in the Crumb family buggy, he was again at the track. Clad now in new running shorts Lester had brought, Kelvin had to admit to himself that he could possibly feel worse. The new slimness was nice, though it was sweat-making just to think about the way he had earned it.

  "Ready, Kel," his father said.

  John Knight, similarly clad, looked flatter and more solid than he had appeared in years. He had just buggied in from his Rud farm with Kelvin's mother, Charlain. The two buggies were now side by side, their horses tied to hitching posts.

  Kelvin had to adjust his thoughts. His father had really changed in appearance! To think, all of that through their combined incredible effort. To think, all of that from just one running session. Maybe, just maybe, the effort would be worth it. Bite your tongue, Kelvin! a part of him said.

  "I still ache," Kelvin confessed. "I don't know if I can—"

  "I ache too, Son. Helbah says the ache will disappear once we're running."

  "Do you believe it?"

  "No, somehow I don't."

  It was, Kelvin knew, going to be agonizing. But Helbah had as much as promised that it would be worse. He wondered about that, and then he saw the twin backpacks Mor Crumb was struggling to remove from Helbah's buggy. Lose a few pounds in front and gain a few in back. Helbah had her ways, and her ways involved, as with so many old people, tried and true methods of making life difficult.

  Mor helped first his father and then Kelvin on with the packs. Even Mor had a little difficulty. Kelvin's was so heavy that he felt he'd kiss the dirt. No way was he going to get around the track wearing this—not unless he crawled. And three times!

  Then, before he knew it, he was out on the track with his father and there was that bobbing, dancing witch light. He knew it was impossible and that Helbah would see that for herself. Then he was half shuffling, half leaping after the light. It was as though he hadn't shed any weight or gained any strength. Somewhere on the eventual curve Kathy Jon almost nicked him with a rock, and then it seemed that he was so angry with her that he forgot completely the pain he was in. An eternity later he and his father both crossed the final line for the third time this day, and both immediately dropped at Helbah's feet. Track dust in mouth, tongue longing for the cooling drink Heln had ready, Kelvin heard his benefactress say:

  "Not bad for has-beens! But tomorrow, I warn you, it's going to be hard."

  Next morning Kelvin just knew that there was no way he was going to get out of bed—ever. But then Lester Crumb came with his fiendishly smiling face and knelt on him while Heln rubbed his legs and shoulders and back. His muscles, he was pleased to notice, had gotten fuller and harder. More dead than alive he let Lester dress him, then drag him to a powerful cup of coftea, the buggy, and finally the track.

  This time Helbah was waiting for them. As he and his father approached she pointed to two pairs of heavy-soled boots in the back of her buggy. "Put these on," she ordered.

  Kelvin watched his father put his on with a grimace. What could be so bad about Helbah's boots? Unless they were stiff, and these didn't appear to be, they could actually make running easier. It would be nice if these were magic, or at least magic enough to make their feet feel light.

  Kelvin picked up his pair and knew immediately the cause of the expression on his father's face. The boots were heavy, really heavy, and possibly loaded with metal.

  He pulled the boots on. They felt as heavy as he had guessed. To wear these at a fast walk would be difficult; to wear them at a run impossible. He looked to Helbah for signs of pity, and saw none. He knew he couldn't do it; he'd be lucky if he could even walk.

  "On your marks," Helbah ordered.

  Somehow Kelvin got his feet set by his father's. Helbah's fireball left her hands and began its compelling dance.

  Somehow, someway, they were running.

  "Keep it up, Grandpa! Faster, Kelvin!"

  Spectators, always spectators. He felt as if he were running with heavy weights on his feet through thick, sticky mud.

  No sooner had he thought this than lightning cracked and rain began to pour.

  In three strides he was wet, in twelve strides soaked. The track grew muddier and muddier. He slipped, stumbled, and fell. He placed his face contentedly in the mud, prepared to lie there forever, but his father, running in place now, was telling him to get up.

  SPLASH: A large stone fell almost on his head. Any closer and he'd have been hit! Curse the girl anyhow! A good hiding, that's what his father-in-law would recommend. He got his hands down, and he pushed himself upright. A moment later he was running again.

  "Go, Unc!" The saucy girl brat was a soaked chicuck dancing in the rain. He hoped she'd slip and fall on her shapely young butt. The same one that needed the hiding. Then the light was compelling him and he was running on.

  Three times around. Could he do it? Could his father? It seemed impossible. He slowed. Another rock splashed. He dragged himself back up to speed.

  Nothing to do but think about the light. Think of moving after it. Of lifting feet, then bringing them down.

  "ONE" his mother's astonishingly flaming sign proclaimed.

  It was dry in the bleachers and in front of the empty judge's stand to the left. No one was getting soaked here. The rain was on the track and the grass beside the track. Could he ever possibly come around a second time?

  He slogged on and on, forever plus a few hours.

  "TWO" the letters blazed. But that was it; he could never, ever get around again. But still there was that accursed dancing light.

  "RUN, HEROES, RUN!" his mother's sign urged.

  Some chance! He could hardly move one weighted foot past the other. He was going to quit. Stop. Right now. They could bury him right here on the track. He probably wouldn't even stink, because all of his body had been destroyed by the awful run.

  Then he looked into Heln's dark, excited eyes and he knew that he couldn't—not on completion of the second lap. One more time around the track. One more, and then he'd be comfortably dead. One more and Heln wouldn't have to be ashamed.

  Plod, plod, plod. Hurt, hurt, hurt. Pain, pain, pain.

  SPLASH! A mud drop caught him on one of his famous round ears and he drove himself at what he knew had to be a fatal pace. It was seemingly taking hours, if
not days. This long, long curve, rain spitting in his face. Was he running or was he staggering? Was his father?

  "THREE" the sign blazed through the rain.

  SPLASH, SPLASH. He and his father dropped down on the dry track. Dry? The rain had been illusory? Insult on top of injury!

  Helbah looked down at them. Their wives came and slobbered over them. For his part Kelvin couldn't move as much as a muscle without Heln's lifting hands.

  "I do proclaim," Helbah said loudly, "that the two of you are now physically and heroically fit."

  Kelvin let his face fall from Heln's opening hands. He didn't feel the shock when it hit in fluffy, soft, nose-filling dust.

  CHAPTER 2

  Unmated Dragon

  Horace barely escaped the other dragon's charge by opaling himself to the side. The big aggressor, his rival for the lovely young creature batting scaled eyelids at him, came to a teetery halt at the very edge of the river. The big dragon turned its head toward him. Quickly Horace pivoted on his hind legs and smacked his tail across the other's snout.

  "Woof! Grunt, glump!" said the big lizard.

  That was, of course, an insult not to be countenanced.

  Horace opal-hopped over its back and from behind raked his sharp claws across a battle-scarred flank. There was a screeching sound as his nails failed to do more than make scratched furrows on gold plate. The next instant there was a loud whipcrack. Horace was flung sideways by a blow that, had it been delivered at a different angle, could readily have broken his back.

  Horace gasped, choked, and tried to clear his head as the other roared. He was up against some tree trunks that hadn't splintered because of his small size. The other was bearing down on him, and his scaleless belly was exposed. In a moment those great teeth would flash and penetrate and—

  Horace opaled as the other dragon finished its charge with a tremendous pounce. Without time to choose where he would rather be, Horace had thought of the riverbank. Dirt was crumbling beneath his scaled feet and he fell with the weakened bank into the water. Back where he had been there was a great crash as dragon collided with tree trunk.

  Horace choked as water closed over him, then shut his nostrils, flipped with his tail, and came to the surface. Current propelled him downstream. He felt himself float a way, then scrambled out onto a tree trunk extending into the river. He rested there, choked up some muddy water he had swallowed, and thought of what he should do next. The big dragon was a tough opponent and Horace wasn't certain he wanted to kill him even if he could. Yet killing was the dragon's way and Horace instinctively recognized it. What slowed Horace at times, and made life difficult, was the human part of him that demanded he think.

  The waters swirled by and Horace knew he had either to opal back or wriggle back. No more than other dragons could he use his tiny wings to fly. Merlain had once explained flying to him, reading from a book. Once dragons might have been able to fly, but that was long ago, before the air had become too thin and dragons far too heavy. Of course there was magic, Merlain had said, but few magicians or witches had experimented with making dragons fly.

  The day was getting on. So must Horace. He thought of the big tree he had been against and of the female, and the opal put him where he wanted to be, right at her feet. The big tree had fallen, and under it he could see the big dragon's golden tail. The tree had fallen on his opponent, possibly crushing him, so that made Horace the winner of the fight.

  The female, only a little larger than he, looked down at him. She batted her eyelids. What a beautiful golden creature she was! What a pleasure it would be to grasp her from behind, and—

  Her tail slap stung! So did the spot on his throat where she had instantly ripped off his scales with one vicious bite.

  Horace sidestepped, and then, as her attack continued, opaled far to the side. What was the matter with her? But then he remembered Merlain warning him: "Male dragons subdue their females. The males and the females fight. Only I suspect not every female fights to her death. If you must mate, pick a female who is smaller."

  "SNORT! SNORT! GRUMP!" said the object of his would-be affections. She was charging him, wriggling from side to side in dragon fashion, intent on grabbing him and not giving delight. Horace opaled himself to where he had been, appalled at her ferocity. He could opal himself right onto her back and accomplish his mission that way, but he knew what Merlain would say: "That's naughty, Horace! That's not fair! That's not even nice!"

  He shook his head, wondering just what to do if the female would not let him mount. He was too human to want to hurt her; too much like his brother Charles and his sister Merlain. He would fight if he had to, but not just so he could take; Merlain, he knew, had the same problem. Dragons might mate and forget, but humans were different from dragons. Horace, dragon though he was, had been instilled with Merlain's idea that affection should precede and persist after the mating. He could not have explained why this made sense to him and not to other dragons, or even to all humans. Horace was different, just as his sister said.

  The female turned, batted her eyelids. Why didn't he come on, her manner suggested. Horace didn't know why, but the burning in his loins grew less, not greater, when he did battle. His late opponent—

  The golden tail under the tree branches wriggled. Horace wrinkled his nostrils. The other was still alive. He might be capable of reviving and attacking him again, possibly while Horace was accomplishing what they had both been intent on accomplishing.

  The dragon's tail flipped and flopped, somehow forlornly. Horace drew close. He could see that the big male had heavy tree limbs pinning both his front and one rear leg. There was no way the golden one could get up unless the tree was moved.

  The dragon raised his head. "Wheez, hisss," he said. Less of a challenge, but still not exactly a plea for help. Horace eyed the branches, considering how they lay. If he were to give the trapped dragon his help, possibly the dragon would then be his friend. Horace had never had a dragon friend; before today he had never seen another dragon.

  As Horace turned the matter over and over in his mind, the female approached at a leisurely walk. She gave a loud sniff, then pushed her snout under the branches. So she was going to help! Should he let her, or should he use his tail to slap her across the snout and get her moved away?

  "GWROOTH!" the pinned dragon cried, not seeming to appreciate her effort. The female lifted her face, bloody golden scales and torn dragon hide between her teeth. She spat these to the ground, darted out her forked tongue, and opened her toothy mouth for a really big, tearing bite.

  She was going to devour him! Horace had heard from Merlain that dragons did such things, and Merlain had also expressed the opinion that eating your own kind was "bad." Horace wasn't quite certain what bad was, but he knew that Merlain did. If she were here she'd tell him to stop it.

  "GWROOMPTH," Horace said, batting the female on the side of the head. His claws were retracted but he instantly got her attention. She turned her head, hissing, long, pointed teeth showing, prepared to battle him.

  This time Horace wasn't gentle. He slapped her with his tail, opaled past her head to her rear, held her tail down, and delivered a really healthy bite.

  "OWOOOOOO!" the female responded. That hurt and she didn't like it. Her language was in fact rather unladylike.

  Horace opaled back so that she could not get at him and raised himself halfway up on his hind legs in a defensive fighter's stance.

  The female was temporarily concerned with the pain in her posterior. She swished her tail through the air, and ran back to the river. She dipped her tail in the water. She squatted there, looking back at him.

  Horace knew that there was no time to mate, if he wanted to rescue the other dragon. He pushed his snout, then his head, then his back under the tree limb pinning the golden male's hindquarters. He levered himself up, heaving with his young and powerful dragon strength.

  The tree limb lifted. Branches poked Horace in the face. The other dragon reared his ba
ck, lifting with both hind legs and the strength of his body. He grumbled, growled, hissed, and spat. His front legs were still held.

  Horace eased himself out from under the branch as the other's tail flashed. He took a brutal slap across the face, but pushed himself free. The female was still on the bank, the male still unable to lift the branch pinning its front feet.

  Horace moved around to the side of the tree. The other glared hatred at him. Ignoring the glare in those eyes Horace wriggled himself under the big branch. By levering upward with the strength of his back, he might take the pressure from his late opponent's trapped feet.

  He tried. Feet gripping the loam, claws digging in, he lifted. The other let out a "GWWORTH!" and heaved back. Wood splintered and the tree shook, and Horace found he was pressed down by the branch, now that the golden dragon was free.

  "GWOORTH, OROOMIFF!" The big dragon was suddenly on top of the branch, reaching down a clawed foot, intent on harming Horace. A forked tongue darted down. The dragon shifted his weight and descended on Horace with all his considerable weight. It was apparent that gratitude was not the dragon's strong point.

  Horace had had enough! He wasn't about to let the freed dragon tear into him as he obviously intended. He thought of the female on the riverbank and there he was, crouched beside her as though still pressed down.

  Her eyes looked into his. Her mouth flashed, biting him painfully on his already stinging snout. Her claws snapped out and she raked him, loosening scales that fell copper and red. Then she was on him, intent on destruction. He felt the pain and smelled her reptile stench perfumed with olfactory-stimulating carrion. He tried to crawl out of her embrace. She nipped his tail as he opaled to the tree from which he had escaped.

  "GROOMTH!" The male was charging him. Clearly this was no place for a mild-mannered copper-sheathed dragon! Horace opaled himself up past the tree-covered slope to the crumbly ledge and its rocky trail. From here he could look down on the two dragons. Far below he saw them, though not very clearly. They were fighting, going at it tail over head. Should he go back and fight some more himself? No, he thought, considering how the big dragon was now on the smaller. The female was getting mated, as was the custom and expectation. For his part he wanted to crawl off with his smarting hide and forget that any of it had happened.