Out of Phaze

“What is wrong with your natural form?” She hesitated. It was obvious that she preferred to relate to him in the human fashion. Then she shrugged, and became herself, with her glossy black coat and golden socks. She played a melody on her horn, and then a two-part tune, the pan-pipes playing counterpoint. How she could do that he was not sure; he assumed that magic assisted it. Perhaps the high notes were played at the narrow tip of the horn, and the low ones at the broader base. But the music was as pretty as he could imagine. He would always remember her for this, for her sound as much as for her appearance.

She finished, and changed back to girl form. ‘Thou dost value me only for my melody,” she teased him.

“I would value you just as much if—“ Mach looked around, seeking a suitable metaphor for the occasion. They were near a pleasant pool, at whose brown-mud border fat frogs squatted. “If your horn sounded like the croaking of frogs.”

She laughed, but there was an angry croak from the nearest frog, who evidently had overheard. In a moment all the frogs had the message, and were glaring at him.

“Methinks thou didst misspeak thyself,” Fleta said, suppressing a merry chortle in the way she had, at bosom-level.

Mach was abashed. It had never occurred to him that the frogs would understand. “I—“

“Croak!” the largest frog said witheringly. Then it turned about, facing the other frogs. They settled themselves in a ring around the pool, at the water’s edge. Then they croaked.

Some had low croaks, and some had high croaks, while most were in the middle ranges. They croaked in sequence—and suddenly a melody emerged, each croak a note. More than that: it was the same melody Fleta had just played on her horn, in both its parts. The frogs were duplicating it in all its detail, and in this mode it had another kind of beauty, as great in its fashion as the original had been.

The frogs completed it, and were silent. They waited.

Mach knew he was on the spot. In his ignorance he had affronted the frogs, without cause. He owed them an apology.

He faced Fleta. “In fact, your horn does sound like the croaking of frogs,” he said loudly. “Beautiful!”

Fleta smiled. “I thank thee for that compliment.”

The frogs considered that. Then the leader jumped into the pond. After that the others followed. In a moment the mud was clear.

“I think they have forgiven thee,” Fleta murmured. Then she embraced him and kissed him, in the midst of her laughter.

She changed back to ‘corn form and played a new melody. This time Mach joined her, singing counterpoint. And from the pond the croaking resumed, providing a melodic background. It was as though an entire orchestra were performing.

There was a rumble. The ground shook. Fleta stopped playing, alarmed.

The pond abruptly drained away, its water disappearing into the ground beneath. The frogs scrambled desperately to escape. The mud bubbled and slid into the deepening hole.

The flower garden caved in around them. Fleta blew a startled note, bracing her four feet. Mach, realizing that something was seriously amiss, leaped for her, scrambling to her back as his footing gave way. “Get out of here!” he cried.

She leaped—but the entire garden collapsed under her hooves, dropping them down into a forming sinkhole. Fleta kept her feet, but slid to the bottom.

Now smoke showed, issuing from forming vents. “It’s a caldera!” Mach cried, jumping off her back. “Change to bird form and fly out, Fleta!”

But she did not; she would not leave him in this danger.

The ground shook again, and the volume of smoke increased, obscuring everything. It seemed to form a globe about them, closing in.

“Magic!” Mach cried. “I’ll try a spell!”

But in this pressure of the moment, he could think of neither rhyme nor melody. Fleta blew a note, trying to help him, but then the smoke closed in, chokingly, and they were helpless.

In a moment, it cleared—but they were no longer in the garden. They were in a chamber hewn from rock— and great ugly creatures surrounded them. The creatures pounced, grasping Mach by the arms, one of them clapping a rough and dirty hand over his mouth. Others flung themselves on Fleta, shoving her against the wall while one grasped her horn.

“Welcome, apprentice!” a man said, entering the chamber. “I am the Purple Adept, and these trolls be under my sway. As thou mayst know, I reside in the Purple Mountains, and I possess the magic of the movements of the earth. Now I want thy cooperation, apprentice, and I want thy word on that now.”

At a signal from Purple, the troll removed his hand from Mach’s mouth. Mach spat out gravel. “I’ll give you no such word, criminal!”

“Now I know thou canst not do magic without thy mouth, and my minion will clap his hand back o’er it the moment thou dost try to sing a spell. So thou canst not escape by thy magic.”

“But I won’t help you, either!” Mach said.

“But an thee give me not thy word, it will go grievously with thy steed here.”

“She’s not my steed!” Mach exclaimed.