RS01. The Reluctant Sorcerer (8 page)

Immediately, Bloody Bob stiffened, and probably by reflex, his grip on Brewster’s arm briefly tightened to the point of pain before he let go abruptly.

“A sorcerer!” “Aye,” said Mick, “so you be on your best behavior, hear?” “Call me Doc,” said Brewster. “Could I ask you to bend over a bit?” Bloody Bob looked puzzled. “Bend over?” “Yes, just bend down toward me a little.” “You won’t be puttin’ a spell on me, will you?” “No, no, I just want to see something.” “Do as the man says, Bobby,” Mick said, cleariy wondering what Brewster had in mind.

Hesitantly, the big man bent down toward Brewster, who reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and took out his hom-rimmed glasses. He was nearsighted, as well, but though he often wore contacts because Pamela liked him better without his hom-rimmed frames, he never went anywhere without his glasses. He’d lost his contacts on more than one occasion.

He slipped the glasses onto Bloody Bob’s face. “Try that,” he said.

The big man’s eyes suddenly grew very wide and Brewster could see that they were a startling bright blue. Bloody Bob’s jaw dropped in amazement.

“S’trewth!” he exclaimed.

“Is that any better?” Brewster asked him.

“I can seel” said Bloody Bob, glancing all around him.

“How well?” asked Brewster. “I mean, is your vision sharp now or are things a little vague and blurry?” The big man gazed at him with awe. “I can see you well enough. Sorcerer,” he replied, “but in the distance, things still look as if I’d had too much to drink. Yet, truly, I never thought to see this well again! Tis a wonder to behold!” He took off the glasses and held them gently, staring at them reverently, then put them back on again and held his breath with astonishment.

“ ‘Tis a magic visorV he said. “I would give anything for such a wonder!” “Well...” said Brewster, “that, uh, ‘magic visor’ is mine, but I think we might be able to make you one of your own. I saw some glass blocks in Mick’s laboratory back there, and if we could make the right sort of wheel, I could try grinding up some lenses for you. It would have to be a process of trial and error, you understand. We’ll probably have to make several pairs before we get it right, because I’m not an optometrist and there’s no way I can establish a prescription. Still, with your help and a bit of luck, I’m sure we could improve your vision beyond what it is now.” “And what would you be askin’ of me for such a wondrous boon?” asked Bloody Bob. “Name your price, Sorcerer, and I shall pay it if it takes a lifetime!” “Well...” said Brewster, “I’m a stranger here and, uh, I could use some help...” The giant dropped down to one knee and bowed his head. “I will serve you faithfully, Great Wizard, if you would help me to regain my sight.” “Sure, and I think you’ve made a friend for life, Doc,” Mick said.

There was a clattering, banging sound and they turned to see the peregrine bush come rustling out through the front door, still tied to the wooden bench and dragging it along. It came up to Brewster, stopped, and raised its branches toward him.

“Two friends,” said Mick wryly. “An ox and a shrub.” “Three,” said Brewster, putting his hand on Mick’s shoulder.

“Nay, four!” said McMurphy.

Brewster grinned and clasped forearms with the farmer. “Well, now we’re getting somewhere,” he said. “Come on, then. We’ve got a lot of work to do!”

Arthur C. Clarke once said that any sufficiently advanced technology would seem like sorcery to those who didn’t understand it. (That was only a paraphrase, of course. Clarke said it a lot more elegantly, which is why he gets the big bucks.) And it’s quite true. It is an inescapable fact of human nature that we often tend to fear that which we do not understand, or at the very least, we respond to it with a disquieting uneasiness. And it was with a disquieting uneasiness that Brewster’s newfound friends regarded him, for while he seemed to be a nice enough fella, he was also one heck of an adept, as far as they were concerned. They knew enough about adepts to treat them with respect. Even to fear them. Some of them were downright terrifying.

Brewster didn’t know it yet, but he was not the only sorcerer around, even if he was the only one in the general vicinity. (He had yet to learn about the Guild, but we’re getting ahead of the story again.) Mick, as we have seen, has some slight skill with magic, but not because he is a sorcerer (which requires years of disciplined study and staying up nights cramming for exams). It’s because he’s fey. This is a characteristic shared by all leprechauns and nymphs and fairies (and to some extent, by elves), and it does not, as is often supposed, refer to campy mannerisms, but to being touched by enchantment. (If you don’t believe me, look it up. I’ll wait.) When a human is said to be fey, it means that person has a sensitivity to things that are magical-which, perhaps, is why some people see such things as ghosts and others don’t. Otherwise, the term means that enchantment is inherent in the creature itself. Mick, being a leprechaun, possessed some inborn magical abilities, but his abilities were little more than parlor tricks compared to what a real sorcerer could do. (Natural talent is all well and good, but it’s no substitute for hard work, training, and experience. So stay in school, kids, do your homework, and don’t goof off in study hall. The preceding has been a public service message from your narrator.) Since he was unable to distinguish between sorcery and science, Mick was convinced that Brewster’s knowledge of the thaumaturgic arts was quite extensive. Robie McMurphy was equally impressed, but no one was more overwhelmed than Bloody Bob, for in loaning him his glasses-or, as Bloody Bob put it, his “magic visor”-Brewster had temporarily restored to him his sight. As it happened, while Brewster’s prescription lenses were not exactly right for Bloody Bob, they did improve his vision significantly. Of course, in Bloody Bob’s case, just about anything short of a blindfold would have been a significant improvement.

Now, while Bloody Bob was not the brightest brigand in the forest, by any stretch of the imagination, he was undoubtedly the biggest and the strongest. In his younger days, he had been a very famous warrior, feared and respected throughout all the twenty-seven kingdoms. However, that was a long time ago and people have short memories. (Just ask Mark Spitz.) The days when Bloody Bob was eagerly sought after by every kingdom and dukedom and offered substantial salaries, profit sharing, great benefits, and Beltane bonuses were long gone and now only the old-timers remembered who he was. And most of them thought that he was dead. He wasn’t dead, but he had foolishly neglected to put anything aside for his retirement. This meant he had to work. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much work available for a man his age (which was probably around sixty or so, he wasn’t sure himself), nor for a man who couldn’t see the broad side of a barn, much less hit it.

This dearth of employment opportunities had left him with few options. He had tried working as a bouncer in a series of seedy little taverns, but due to his failing eyesight, he kept bouncing the wrong people and was, in turn, bounced himself (which resulted in a number of taverns being forced to close down temporarily for renovation). Bob had slowed down some in his old age, and he couldn’t see well, but he was still as strong as an elephant and he angered quickly and easily. Pretty soon, word got around and no one wanted to hire this nearsighted, albeit highly dangerous, old man. So, having run out of options, Bloody Bob turned to a life of crime.

He fell in with the Forest Brigands (back when they still made their headquarters in the forest) and finally found a situation where his abilities were properly appreciated. It wasn’t a great job, but it was okay. There wasn’t very much money to be made in the brigand trade, at least, not until Black Shannon took over and brought her managerial skills to the operation, but Bob was able to get by and he enjoyed the camaraderie.

Brigands have always been, by nature, a rather roughand-tumble lot, and many of them were ex-warriors like Bob, who were getting on in years, so they were able to trade lots of old war stories. (In some cases, they’d fought for opposing sides, but it was only business, so no one had any hard feelings.) The younger brigands were generally warrior wannabe types who’d failed to make the grade for one reason or another, but they knew enough to show proper respect to the old troopers. (And if they didn’t, they generally learned fairly quickly.) So, all things considered, Bloody Bob was pretty happy with his lot in life. He could have done much worse. However, his failing eyesight had been a source of considerable anguish to him. (Imagine how you’d feel if you could once bend a longbow and hit the bull’s-eye every time from a hundred yards, only now you couldn’t even see the target unless you were close enough to touch it.) Worst of all for Bloody Bob was the embarrassment, the sheer mortification, of losing his swords. To a true warrior, nothing was more important than his sword. He ate with it, he slept with it, but he never, ever misplaced it. It was the worst possible sin. And Bob had done it more than once. He couldn’t help it. He’d put his sword down somewhere and then be unable to find it again because he couldn’t see well enough. The other brigands had learned to be considerate and if they happened upon his missing blade, they’d surreptitiously place it within his reach and then arrange for him to notice it.

(“Ooops! Sorry, Bob. Didn’t mean to trip over your sword. Didn’t see it lying on the floor there, right next to your chair. Nay, on the other side of your chair. Bob.”) However, when it happened in the woods, or on the trail, or while he was taking a bath in a stream, there was no hope for it. He’d crawl about on his hands and knees, desperately feeling around for it, racking his brain to remember where he’d put it down, but almost invariably, he’d never find it, even if it was only a few feet away. The humiliation was unendurable. He could take growing old. He could take getting fat. He could even take irregularity and the painful itch of hemorrhoids, but he could not take having his eyesight fail him. Then, suddenly, out of nowhere, Brewster had come and shown him a miracle.

If Brewster had saved his life, if he had fixed him up with the most gorgeous woman who had ever lived, or if he’d given him the winning ticket to the Irish Sweepstakes, he could not have inspired greater devotion. From the moment Brewster placed his hom-rimmed glasses on Bloody Bob’s red nose, he became the center of the old warrior’s universe.

The keep soon became the hub of frenetic activity. First, of course, it was necessary to clean up the place and make it a suitable residence for a sorcerer of Brewster’s stature. Mick busied himself with the construction of new furniture while Bloody Bob and Robie McMurphy pitched in to help sweep out the cobwebs and the mouse droppings.

McMurphy was eager to get in on the ground floor, so to speak, because Mick had shown him the Swiss Army knife and told him about their plans. McMurphy knew a good money-making opportunity when he saw one. They had a working mill, and a soon-to-be-expanded brewery, a smithy and an armory business, the proposed many-bladed knife manufacturing facility, and the opportunities presented by working as apprentices to a master sorcerer. McMurphy didn’t know what the word “conglomerate” meant, but he had an instinctive grasp of the concept.

Bloody Bob didn’t really have a head for business, but for a magic visor of his own, he would have sold his soul. His brawn came in very handy. While the others worked, Brewster supervised and drew up plans and concentrated on making a suitable pair of spectacles for Bob. It proved to be a bit more difficult than he’d expected.

He had never thought it would be easy. He understood the principles involved, but he was not a trained optometrist and he had realized that this was not going to be one of those “get-your-glasses-in-one-hour” jobs. He had access to glass, because Mick kept a stock of crude glass blocks and pipettes in his laboratory, but he didn’t have access to any modern grinders, and so he had to improvise.

It had been necessary for Mick to make two wheels, constructed to Brewster’s specifications, one for grinding and one for polishing. They were essentially similar in design to potter’s wheels, but grinding and polishing on them took forever. To grind the lenses, Brewster had to use fine sand and water from the stream, and to polish them he used hide and sheepskin. The result was hardly comparable to a modern pair of lenses, but in time, he was able to come up with something more or less serviceable, even if it did take a lot of elbow grease.

It was also, unavoidably, a trial-and-error process, most of it simply guesswork. He would make one pair of lenses, try them out on Bloody Bob, see how well they worked-or didn’t work-and then go back to the drawing board. (Or, more properly, the grinding wheel.) There was also the problem of testing them. Initially, he had prepared an eye chart, handprinted on a board, only to discover that the letters meant nothing to Bloody Bob because he couldn’t read. McMurphy came to the rescue, however, and drew another sort of eye chart.

Brewster would point to one large picture at the very top. “What’s this, Bob?” “Uh...’tis a cow. Doc.” “Okay. Good. Now, let’s move on to the next line, with these smaller pictures here. What animal is this?” “Uh... a rabbit?” “Good. Now how about this one?” “A pig.” “Well, no, actually, this one’s a sheep.” “Looks like a pig.” “ Tis a sheep. Bob,” McMurphy would put in.

“Still looks like a pig. You drew it wrong, McMurphy.” “You think a farmer can’t tell the difference ‘twixt a sheep and a pig?” “I say ‘tis a pig!” (Rasp of a new sword being drawn from its scabbard.) “Okay, okay, ‘tis a pig!” “Uh, maybe we’d better try this again later,” Brewster would say.

Eventually, he was able to make a pair of lenses that allowed Bloody Bob to see reasonably well, even if his vision was still a little blurry, but to Bloody Bob, this was a miracle. And the fact that it took so long obviously meant it was a very complicated thaumaturgic process, indeed.

Then there arose the problem of making frames for the lenses. Plastic, obviously, was out of the question, so they would have to be metal frames. And while metal frames could be fashioned without too much trouble, someone like Bloody Bob would require something pretty strong and durable. Wire rims simply wouldn’t do. It was Bloody Bob himself who finally gave Brewster the solution to the problem. He had referred to Brewster’s glasses as a “magic visor,” so what Brewster came up with and had Mick make was, in fact, a sort of visor, made from two pieces constructed out of bronze and riveted together, between which the lenses could be sandwiched. In fact, the finished product bore a strong resemblance to the sort of wraparound glasses that were popular for a time among musicians and surfers.

Bloody Bob was ecstatic. Not only did they help him see better than he had in years, they were also a unique fashion statement that gave him an even more fearsome appearance. When he first put them on, he did so with as much reverence and solemnity as a king putting on his crown. From that moment on. Bloody Bob was Brewster’s loyal friend and stalwart champion, which he declared formally by dropping to one knee and swearing his lifelong allegiance.

All this took time, however, and as the keep slowly started to shape up, there were other projects in the works, as well. Mick and McMurphy undertook the construction of the still, working under Brewster’s supervision. They fashioned copper tubing by using iron rods from the smithy, wrapping copper sheets around them, then heating them and beating them into solid tubes, which they then pulled off the rods. Solder was made from a blend of tin and gold, which Brewster thought rather extravagant, but Mick dismissed his concerns by telling him that he had plenty of the stuff and it wasn’t really worth anything, anyway.

This was yet one more tidbit of information that gave Brewster pause, for gold had always been valued throughout history and he could not think of a time when it had been considered essentially worthless. He did not know what to make of it. He watched as the molten blend of gold and tin was poured into a mold, so that it came out in the shape of a thin rod, and then all it took was an iron rod heated in the furnace to make a crude yet effective soldering iron. Slowly, but surely, what he thought had to be the most expensive still in history started to take shape.

Another project they devoted time to was the construction of a Franklin stove, to heat Brewster’s new residence in the tower. Brewster drew up the plans and Mick fashioned a square box of iron plate, with a hole in the top and bricks inside it to hold the heat.-Then they made a pipe to conduct the smoke out through the chimney of the fireplace, which worked just fine once they cleared out all the squirrels’ nests.

The next project they began was the construction of a cistern to be placed atop the tower. The plan was to run it off the large wooden water wheel by devising a set of three smaller wooden wheels, one of which was mounted on the outer wall beside the main water wheel, while the other two were mounted on the exterior wall of the tower, one at the bottom and one at the very top. These were all connected by a crude belt drive system made from rope and wooden pegs. The large, main water wheel turned the first smaller wooden wheel mounted beside it. This wheel was connected to the second smaller wheel by a horizontal belt, and that second wheel, in turn, was connected to the third wheel by a vertical belt that ran up to the top of the tower. Between the pegs of the vertical belt drive, wooden buckets had been mounted to lift water from the sluice to the cistern at the top of the tower, where a tipover allowed the buckets to auto- matically dump the water in a small wooden trough that filled the cistern. There was an overflow trough that allowed the excess water to drain back down to the sluice.