Authors: Alan Dean Foster
Jon-Tom smacked himself mentally. “That's right. You told me all about your plans last week. I'd just forgotten. I seem to forget a lot anymore.”
She advanced to bestow an affectionate kiss on his fore-head. “Don't be too hard on yourself, dear. You're a long way from the onset of senility.”
“Thanks for the compliment,” he replied dryly.
She turned to leave. “Please try to look after things, and stay out of the kitchen as much as possible. I've heard you verbally disparaging the dishes on more than one occasion, and you know how sensitive they are. Make sure any visitors use the cleaning spell at the door, and don't forget to put out the rat.”
“I can take care of my own home,” he assured her, a little stiffly.
“I know you can, dear, when you pay attention. But sometimes your mind wanders and you muddle your spells. Remember the last time the disposal had cavities and you backed up garbage all over the floor while trying to fill them?”
“So I forgot to include the incantation for calcium.” He glared over at Mudge, who by dint of great effort was battling to suppress a smile.
Dutifully he wished his wife a good journey and they embraced. Only after she was well on her way did he carefully remove his line from the water, secure the hook, and proceed to chase the otter around the nearest tree. As always, he was unable to catch him. The passage of time had slowed the otter some, but it had been no kinder to his human companion.
THERE WERE ONLY
three sprites in the living room, but they were making the most of it. One transcribed ellipses atop the couch, another busied itself beneath the coffee table, while the third chose to dangle from the ceiling on suction-cup-shod feet.
Things were worse in the master bedroom, which found itself beset by a horde of tiny imps ranging in hue from a flat vinyl white to a chocolately beige. They were a blur of activity, at times appearing organized, at others chaotic. This resulted in a tendency to run into each other at high speed, with fractious and occasionally messy results. Many were the minuscle arguments over who had the right of way through the appropriate hermetic paths.
Angry and frustrated, Jon-Tom strode through the house trying to clean and keep order as best he could. He was in unusually bad temper and even the wondrous duar sounded off-key. His lyrics lacked inspiration and the result was a household more afflicted by the nether regions than usual. The bathroom was proving particularly difficult to exorcise, and when he broke an entire bottle of throat gargoyle he was forced to retire to his study and try to find some adequate disinfecting terminology. His failures pained his pride, and he was grateful there was no one around to witness his distress.
Gradually he managed to wrestle the tree house back into shape. Demons and imps hissed and expectorated and sputtered and (when no one was looking) spat fire at one another. Only after Jon-Tom's music banished the last of them could he begin the tedious task of restoring the singed wallpaper.
Housework, he decided, was unexpectedly magic-intensive.
Loud clunks sounded from the vicinity of the laundry room. Sighing deeply, he headed in that direction while strumming a few uninspired bars on the duar. Almost immediately, a pale lavender sprite drifted out on membranous wins. Its features were petite and flat.
“Oh, Master,” it piped, “the imps charged with the care of the dry cleaning have formed a ruckus.”
“Why? All I asked was that they clean and de-spot half a dozen coats. A simple enough task.”
“I know that, Master. Of course, if we sprites were in charge, things would be different.”
“Sprites don't manipulate heat as well as imps. Get out of my way.” He brushed the aggrieved sprite aside.
There were four of themâbloated of form, huge of mouth, warty of face. None stood taller than his waist. They were arguing vociferously. A pair of coats hung from a rack, neatly pressed and encased in a gellike substance that was neither plastic nor cellophane.
“What's the problem?”
Startled, the nearest imp belched, and Talea's good ruby dress vest popped out of its nose. The garment was only half clean, and a prominent spot was visible near the waistline. Sheepishly, the imp passed the vest to its companion, who expeditiously regurgitated a hangar while fumbling with the article of clothing.
“It's their fault,” the hangar-puker insisted, gesturing at the pair seated across from him. “They're deliberately slowing things down.”
“We're just being prudent,” insisted one of the accused. “Too much heat will ruin the fabric.
Anybody
should know that.”
“You can overpress.” His sneering neighbor displayed chunky, flat molars in a wide, slightly sulfurous mouth.
Definitely need to put a deodorizing spell to work in here, Jon-Tom decided as he sniffed the air. “The parameters of the incantation demand that you work together. I want no more delays, and no more arguing.” With that he turned and stalked out of the laundry room, ignoring the griping that filled the air behind him. Heat imps were notoriously contumacious⦠but they did excellent laundry.
Is it for this,
he told himself,
that I have mastered the great powers and studied the old books? I am Jonathan Thomas Meriweather, the most proficient spellsinger this world or any other has ever seen! Twenty years I've toiled perfecting my skills and practicing my craft⦠the better to clean house and do laundry?
He shook the duar and bellowed a challenge. All about the tree, throughout its dimensionally expanded rooms and nooks, demons and sprites and imps and spirits looked up out of things that were not eyes and listened through orifices that were not ears.
“Begone!” he cried. “I dismiss you all! I free you from your obligations. Leave this place, leave this home, and leave me!”
Something that was all long rubbery arms put aside a broom and hissed sibilantly. “About time! This is no work for an honest, self-respecting nightmare.” Whereupon it promptly imploded and disappeared.
With moans and groans and hisses and howls and cries and sobs and wails of relief, they vanished: down drains, up chimneys, out windows, and through pores in the wood. One even used, somewhat disdainfully, the front door, but Jon-Tom chose not to chastise it for this breach of thaumaturgic protocol. He was too tired and too frustrated. Alone once more, he slumped into a partly dusted kitchen chair.
Well, perhaps not quite alone.
“Excuse me.”
Jon-Tom wiped perspiration from his forehead. “What?”
“Excuse me, Master.”
Turning, Jon-Tom found himself confronted by a four-foot-tall bright blue demon. It wore sandals of carved azurite and a dark turquoise vest. A most competent demon, he thought, for it was no easy task to weave turquoise. He slumped back in the chair.
“I thought I dismissed all of you. Well, what is it?”
A distinctly mournful cast colored the apparition's reply. “Master, don't you recognize me?”
Jon-Tom frowned uncertainly. “Recognize you? I see so many spirits and shades in my work.”
“I'm Fugwheez, Master.” Pointed, fringe-lined ears flicked rhythmically as the ugly yet homely face gazed anxiously at the man in the chair.
“Fugwheez? Sorry, doesn't ring any bells.”
“You conjured me some four years ago, Master. To shellac the dining room table?” His manner was demonically earnest.
“Dining room table.” A flicker of recognition creased Jon-Tom's face. “Oh, yeah, I remember. The job description was pretty specific. According to the info Clothahump gave me, you were the only one who could vomit varnish. Talea wasn't crazy about the idea at the time, but she was delighted with the results.”
“Wives generally are not pleased with most anything demons can do,” Fugwheez avowed. “How's the table holding up, by the way? I didn't come in through the dining room.” He gestured apologetically at the kitchen door. “The linoleum has occupied all my time since coalescence.”
“The table's fine. Shines like marble.”
Fugwheez smiled, revealing contented fangs. “There, you see?”
Jon-Tom's brows contracted. “This is all very pleasant and domestic, but it doesn't explain why you're still here.”
“Ordinarily we inhabitants of the Nether Regions resent being dragged out of a cold bath or away from our regular work to attend to the requests of mortal meddling mystics, but you struck me years ago as a pretty decent sort, for a mortal being. You're understanding instead of demanding, and willing to allow for cross-Aether mistakes. None of this âDo that, I order you!' and âDo this, I demand it!' rubbish.
“I found myself caught up in the general housecleaning crew you conjured, but it didn't bother me because I recalled your tolerance. We're not supposed to show sympathy for mortalsâactually we're suppose to rend and cleave them if the opportunity presents itselfâbut you're different, and I hate to see you moping about like this. Extended moping's part of a Grump's job description, not yours, Master Meriweather.”
“See me like what?” Jon-Tom didn't meet the demon's dark cobalt eyes.
“I think you know. Look at yourself, Master. Look at what you're doing with your life and your unique skills. Frittering away your talents on mundanities like housecleaning.”
“Don't you think I'm aware of the irony?” Jon-Tom grumbled. “But what can I do about it?”
“You could start by first losing that apron,” Fugwheez suggested. “It's unsuitable to your position.”
Jon-Tom hesitated, knowing that he who takes advice from demons risks eternal damnation and destruction.
On the other hand, it was only an apron.
Rising, he untied it and laid it carefully aside.
“That's much better.” Fugwheez looked satisfied. “Second, I think that your immortal soul may be in danger.”
“I beg your pardon? Are you saying that I am being stalked by hostile forces? By some lingering ancient evil I may have accidentally offended in my travels? By some wicked and as yet unsuspected nefarious force?”
“No, no.” The demon gestured soothingly, his long blue fingernails glistening wetly in the kitchen light. “Nothing like that.”
“Oh,” murmured Jon-Tom, sounding unaccountably disappointed.
“It's the torment you're inflicting on yourself that has me concerned. Can't you see your own unhappiness? If someone as inherently insensitive as a demon can sense it, surely you can't be oblivious to your own emotional condition.”
“I know I'm not a bundle of good cheer here lately,” Jon-Tom admitted. “I think it's because I'm not doing what I want. In fact, I'm not doing much of anything. But what can I do about it when there's nothing that needs doing? The world is at present an ordered and placid place. I can't invent a crisis.”
The demon hopped up on the kitchen counter across from Jon-Tom and planted his hairy legs and backside on the edge of the tile. With extraordinary presumption for a conjured fiend, he put a comradely arm around the spellsinger's shoulders. Jon-Tom didn't shrug it off.
“You can get off this track and out of this rut if you want to, Master Meriweather.” With his free hand he gestured at the kitchen. “Or are you going to spend the rest of your life attending to such as this? Spellsinging brooms and feather dusters?”
Jon-Tom scrutinized the grotesque but concerned face. “I've told you. There's nothing going on that requires my attention.”
“A resourceful mortal has access to situations and circumstances that are denied even to such as myself,” Fugwheez reminded him. “If you persist in rationalizing your present situation, you will indeed end up like the great mass of humans: content on the outside, desperate on the inside. I know. I've consumed quite a lot of human desperation.” A long clawed finger tapped the center of Jon-Tom's chest. “It's usually a small knot right about here, though it varies in size from individual to individual. Nourishing but rather bland, not unlike enriched white bread. Don't you know that most men lead lives of quiet desperation?”
“That's from
Walden
, isn't it?”
The demon nodded. “Thoreau's quite popular in the Nether Regions. All that talk about civil disobedience, you know. Anarchy has a distinctive flavor.”
“Why this unnatural concern for me?” Jon-Tom watched the blue demon intently.
“I told you: you're different. Also, we find your antics entertaining, and because of the nature of your work, it's likely that someday one of us will have the opportunity to disembowel and consume you. Nothing personal, I assure you. But sweet tastes better than bitter.”
“So what this all comes down to is not altruism or concern for my welfare, but food?”
The demon replied innocently, “Doesn't everything?”
“I told you, I can't just go out and manufacture a crisis.”
“Of course not. That's my job. But surely the great spellsinger Jonathan Thomas Meriweather can think of something more suitable to engage his talent than defrosting the freezer and fluffing the sheets on his bed.” Fugwheez leaped ceilingward and hung dangling by one arm from the light fixture, looking like the ugliest and bluest of all apes.
“Maybe⦠.” Jon-Tom let his fingers drift across the duar's strings. The sound they produced in the kitchen was melancholy yet hopeful. “Maybe I haven't been trying hard enough. Maybe it's time I stopped waiting for something to happen and went looking for it.”
“That's it!” Fugwheez cheered him on. “Be active, not reactive.” He skittered across the ceiling, irritating the glowspells. “And the next time you need something varnished, don't hesitate to call on me. All I ask in return is that when you finally make a fatal slip, I get the first bite of your brains. I'm sure the flavor will be delicate and exceptionally sweet.”
“If that circumstance arises, I'll try and make sure that you're first in line,” Jon-Tom assured him dryly.