170. The Boudoir of Doom

Contest Winner: Sir Read-a-Lot

Rigel stumbled along a dark passage for what seemed like ages. Soon his arms, legs, and head were aching with sprains and bruises from unexpected overhangs, sudden turnings, and a tumble down a flight of broad, shallow steps. His language became nearly incendiary enough to light the passage for him -- but not quite.

Presently he saw light ahead. After rounding a corner, he saw a room illuminated by a ring of high, narrow windows. The walls were papered in a pattern of bright stripes and flowers. A canopy bed, a dressing-table with a wide bench before it, a washstand, a wardrobe, and a large chest filled most of the space in the room, every item of the finest quality. The room carried the scent of the witch whose appearance had lately bewitched Rigel. He noticed an old school trunk poking out from under the bed. As he walked past, he kicked it so that it turned, revealing the name painted above the lock: "Sheherazade Jenkins."

Nice name, he thought, grinning at the memory of the way she had looked at him.

On the far wall were two doors, locked and bolted from Rigel's side, with a painting on the wall between them.

As Rigel drew closer, he saw that the painting was of two children with identical, freckly faces and long yellow hair. Their bony arms and torsos, arranged at uncomfortable-looking angles, grew together out of the same pair of hips. Their frilly dress robes gave them the look of an earlier century, yet without giving away whether they were boys or girls. Their painted eyes impassively watched Rigel as he approached.

"Who are you, then?" Rigel demanded after giving the painted twins a moment to look him over.

One of the twins gave Rigel a loud raspberry, spraying his face with flakes of paint. The other rolled its eyes and pointed downward. Rigel looked below the painting, only now spotting an engraved plate fastened to the bottom of its broad, dusty frame. Of course, it was written in Italian.

Rigel poked around in his pocket, for one moment reaching in up to his elbow, then brought out a lorgnette - like a pair of spectacles on a stick, designed to be held in front of the eyes rather than worn. This elaborate piece of jewelry had come encrusted with precious stones and flakes of gold when it had first come out of Rigel's godfather clock, along with a card hoping that he would enjoy his new "opera glasses." He had sold off all the decorative elements, one by one, for purposes various and nefarious. All that remained were two thick, blurry lenses mounted on a frame of tarnished brass. Rigel breathed on the lenses, polished them on the sleeve of his robe, then held them up before his eyes. The Italian words engraved on the silver plate blurred in the opera glasses, then became clear again... in English.

"Hmmm," said Rigel. Then he read aloud: "'Behold the Geminiani twins: Remo the good and Omer the evil. At the hour of their birth, an evil witch cursed them to live together in one body all their lives. Madness took them. One can only speak truth, the other always lies. Ask them what you will, they can only answer Yes or No. But beware what you ask them. For one of these two doors leads to deadly peril, the other to freedom and safety. And only the twins know which is which...'"

"I know this one," Rigel said to himself. "Let's see..." He addressed himself to the twin on the left. "You there. Can you understand me?"

"Yes," said the twin.

"How about you?" he asked the one to the right. When it waited for more, he added: "Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"No," said the other twin, with just as little expression as the other.

"You're the evil one, then?"

"Yes," said the twin on the right. Its eyes widened as it nodded, as if pleading with Rigel to understand.

He scratched his head. "You weren't supposed to say that," he said. "Assuming that you lied when you said you can't understand me, you must be the evil twin. Right?"

"Yes," the right-hand twin said urgently.

Rigel closed his eyes and massaged his temples. "Right," he said. "But then, if you always lie, then you shouldn't have said Yes just now. You were lying to me, weren't you?"

"No," said the right-hand twin.

"So you're really evil, are you?"

"Yes."

"And you understand what I'm saying?"

"No."

Rigel puffed out his cheeks, then let forced the air out with a pop. "All right, let's go back to you." He turned to the twin on the left. "Still understand me, do you?"

"Yes," said the twin, nodding emphatically.

"You're telling the truth, then?"

"Yes."

Rigel rubbed his hands together. "Now we're getting somewhere. So you're the good twin, right, and..."

"No."

"Hang on, I wasn't -- what? Are you telling me that you're the evil twin?"

"Yes."

"But if you were the one that always tells lies, you would have said no -- right?"

"Yes."

"I thought so. And if you were the good twin, and I asked you if you always tell the truth, you would have said Yes, right?"

"No."

Rigel covered his face with both hands. "Aargh! Aargh! Aaaaaaargh!" He turned in a circle, running in place. He shook himself like a wet dog. Then he opened his eyes and gave the twin on the left a hard, cold stare. "All right," he said. "Let's start over. Yes or No: Are you the evil twin?"

"Yes."

"No!" Rigel screamed, tearing at his hair. "There's no way you could possibly say that! Because if you're the evil twin, you have to lie. And if you're the good twin, you have to tell the truth. So no matter which one you are, when I ask if you're evil, you're supposed to say no. Right?"

"No," said the twin on the left.

Rigel gnashed his teeth. "What about you? How would you answer that same question?"

"No," said the other twin.

"AARGH! We're getting nowhere! Forget it -- let's talk about the doors. You on the right: does one of these doors lead to certain death?"

"No."

"Aha! That's a lie! It says so right here on the plaque that one of the doors leads to deadly peril. The plaque does tell the truth, doesn't it?"

"No."

"And so you're the liar, right?"

"No."

"Now we're getting somewhere. But didn't you deny being the liar a minute ago?"

"Yes."

Rigel scowled. "Now look here. You're supposed to stick with one or the other, lying or telling the truth. This isn't going to work if I can't trust you absolutely. Or distrust you, as the case may be. So let's lay it on the line. Are you, or aren't you, Omer the evil?"

"Yes."

"But if you were Omer the evil, wouldn't you have to lie about that?"

"Yes."

Rigel clenched his fists and just restrained himself from punching the painting. "No, no, no, no, no! Can't you see -- No, hang on, don't answer that."

He did some deep breathing for a minute or two. Then he approached it afresh. To the twin on the right he asked, "Do you always tell lies?"

"No."

"Were you lying just now?"

"No."

"Would it be safe for me to go through the door on the right?"

"Yes."

"Would your brother want me to go through the door on the right?"

"No."

"But he would be lying to me, right?"

"Yes."

"Because he's the evil brother?"

"No."

Rigel roared with frustration. "Just when I thought I was getting somewhere with you!" He turned toward the twin on the left. "If I asked your brother which door I should go through, would he tell me to go through the door on the right?"

"Yes."

Rigel pondered this answer for a moment, then shook his head. "That doesn't help. He did say Yes, but I don't know any more now than I did then. Oh! I've got it!" To the twin on the left he asked: "If your brother could tell the truth, would he tell me to go through the door on the right?"

"No."

"Do you think I should go through the door on the right?"

"Yes."

"Is that because it's the safest door?"

"No."

"Drat, fiddlesticks, and riddle-me-purple! You want me to go through the door on the right because it isn't safe?"

"Yes."

"Does your brother think I should go through the door on the right?"

"No."

"Does he want me to come to harm?"

"No."

"But he told me to go through it!" Rigel held his hands out toward both twins pleadingly. "You've got to give me some help here! Am I supposed to believe that the evil twin is the one who always tells the truth?"

"Yes," said the freckly face on the left.

"No," said his twin on the right.

"This one's for both of you. Are you lying to me?"

"No," they said in unison.

"But one of you is lying to me, right?"

"Yes," said the twin on the left; "No," said the one on the right.

"Are you the liar?"

"No," said the twin on the left; "No," said the one on the right.

"Do you want me to come to harm?"

"Yes," said the twin on the left; "Yes," said the one on the right.

"Does your brother want me to come to harm?"

The answers, from left to right, were "No" and "No."

"Do you want me to go through the door your brother says I should go through?"

They both answered "Yes."

Rigel shivered. "This doesn't make sense. You both want me to go through the same door?"

This time the answers, from left to right, were "No" and "Yes."

"So if you don't want me to go through the same door, but you would both tell me to go through the same door, then one of you wants me to go through it because it's dangerous, and the other can't help it because he's got to lie. And so the good brother always has to lie, and the bad brother always has to tell the truth. Isn't that so?"

Both brothers answered glumly, "Yes" on the left and "No" on the right.

"Blimey," Rigel said, shivering again. "That's one hell of a curse. I don't know how you could live with each other. You didn't... you know.... kill each other, did you?"

Oddly, both brothers said No. But there was something in the look the brother on the left gave the one on the right that made Rigel's flesh crawl.

"All right," said Rigel. "Freedom and safety through the door on the left. Right?"

"Yes," said the brother on the left, rather bitterly, Rigel thought. "No," said his brother, though his heart didn't seem to be in it anymore.

"Right-o," said Rigel. "I believe I've got it know. I'll just be going on with my adventure, then, and you chaps can have a nice day."

And forgetting that the faces in the painting defined "left" and "right" differently than Rigel did, he unbolted the door on his left and marched confidently through it. It closed by itself (naturally) -- even the bolt (magically) moved back into its place. A moment later, the door only partially muffled Rigel's voice as he screamed, "Oh, bollocks! AAAaaaaargh..." His bloodcurdling scream faded rapidly into the distance.

The boy on the left side of the painting smirked. His twin sighed, rolled his eyes, pulled out a deck of cards, and began to deal a game of patience.

+++ DOUBLE CHALLENGE FOR TMQ #172 +++

You can help decide what happens next in The Magic Quill! Simply leave a brief comment (up to 150 words) answering the following Survey and Contest. The survey answer with the most votes, and the contest answer that Robbie likes best, will turn up in the chapter after next.

SURVEY: Which "Magic Quill" character or group of characters are you most impatient to hear from again?

CONTEST: What city on modern-day Earth should make a brief appearance in Chapter 172? Indicate a few points of interest that should be included.

169. Bernie Landstein

Contest winner: Dragonic
Runner-up: TWZRD

The rehearsal of the Blastburn Philharmonic was not going well even before the guest conductor called a 30-minute break and stormed offstage, muttering and clutching his head. The musicians dispersed, some to take a nap in the green room, some to have a smoke outside the stage door, a few to throw back a quick drink at the pub around the corner. Two or three viola players (it was never easy to tell for sure) stayed onstage, trying to get their instruments in tune. The stage manager loitered near the snack machine, unable to decide between a vacuum-packed sandwich and a bag of crisps. The horn players played a quick hand of rummy. The backup conductor, whose primary income came from a secondary school teaching job, put his feet up in the sound booth and began correcting a stack of algebra papers.

So no one observed the purple light that flashed from under the door of the guest conductor's dressing room. No one heard the muffled "whuff" sound caused by a stunning spell; nor, if they had, would they have been able to identify it as such. No one even noticed the thud of Bernie Landstein's body collapsing on the floor. Even the fact that the maestro kept the orchestra waiting ten minutes past the end of the break did not raise much concern. The violas were still trying to get tuned. The piccolo player was having a case of hiccoughs. One of the horn players, who had a habit of cheating at cards, was still applying direct pressure to a nosebleed when Landstein reascended the podium.

The musicians' chatter and practice riffs gradually died. This, in itself, would prove to be the first sign that something unusual had happened to their conductor - when the players had leisure to think back on it. Bernie Landstein was usually such a commanding presence. For a few moments, however, he seemed reluctant to assert control of the situation. He seemed, in fact, to fade gradually into visibility - though he had walked quite openly out of the wings.

Just before silence fell, one of the oboists muttered: "My, Bernard, but what a big baton you have!"

"All the better," Landstein purred, "to beat... er, time with."

"Black and blue," a horn player mouthed behind the bell of his horn.

"Let's pick it up," the conductor said, scanning the score with what momentarily looked like a glance of desperation, "at Rehearsal Number 61. A-one, a-two, a-one two three..."

The musicians gamely plunged into an extremely brisk march, which caught them off guard because the passage in question was usually played as a graceful lament.

"Keep it together, trombones," the conductor said, much to the confusion of the clarinettists he was looking at. "Look alive, there, timpani," he added in the direction of the xylophone player. "No, no, no! That's an A-flat!" The cellists looked at each other, wondering what clef the conductor was reading. "All right, stop! Yes, Mister... er..."

"Frogbourne," the concertmaster piped up. "Just a question, sir. Do you want us to hold the crotchet in bar 211 for its full value?"

"Absolutely not," Mr. Landstein exclaimed, looking deeply affronted. "Any other questions?"

Another musician put her hand up and said, "Would you like the bassoons to double the basses in bars 198 to 206?"

"What does the score say, Miss..."

"Boing," said the bassoonist.

The maestro rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Boing? Where does it say Boing?"

"The name is Boing," said Miss Boing. "The score says como sardini, avido, senza ginocchia..."

"And that means...?"

"Er... like sardines, greedily, without knees?"

"Exactly!" the maestro cried triumphantly. "Therefore, the answer to your question is...?"

Miss Boing hung her head. "No, I guess."

"At last, we are communicating. Mr. Cheesedanish?"

"Hasenpfeffer, Herr Direktor."

"Yes, yes, what is it?"

"Your score is on fire, sir."

"Oh, dear! How did that..."

"A spark from your baton, sir..."

"But that's..." Bernie Landstein looked at the stick in his hand and suddenly giggled: a sound no one had ever heard him make before. "Well, how silly of me. Agua."

The baton squirted water at the singed sheet music, dousing the flames with a hiss of steam.

"Whoops-a-daisy," said Mr. Landstein. "I seem to have picked up somebody's joke w-... that is, baton. Carry on, then, from Molto moderato assai ma non troppo, with feeling now!"

The next portion of the rehearsal was, if at all possible, even more chaotic. While Bernie Landstein, eyes closed with rapture, waved his baton in a broad, swinging 6/8 time, the orchestra struggled to reconcile his gesture with a rigorous passage in 2/2. "That's the ticket," he said, oblivious to the fact that one of the bassists - a dumpy, pock-marked creature with curlers in her hair - was struggling to drag her instrument through the middle of the orchestra and colliding with two out of three musicians in her way.

"I say, there, Madrigal dear," Bernie Landstein said, opening his eyes and looking straight at her.

The ugly bassist froze in her tracks. The music, like the baton, went on.

"Your solo isn't until the next movement," said the jovial, dissolute face under its swirl of prematurely gray hair. His eyes, however, locked on hers with a steely force that, for once, reminded the band of the conductor they knew and hated.

"I'm just going to fetch some rosin," the bassist said in a demure yet gravelly voice.

"I'm sure the... er, cello section here would be delighted to lend you some," said the maestro, sweeping his baton in the direction of - rather surprisingly - the cello section. The tip of the baton emitted a puff of smoke, at which the principal cellist faltered.

"What did he call her?" one flautist asked another, audibly, during a rest in their part.

"Madrigal," said the second flautist.

"That's funny," said the oboist, regardless of a solo he was supposed to be playing. "I thought her name was Erwinia Mizenboom."

"She and the maestro must have a special relationship," hissed the harpist, from two rows away.

"Enough chatter," Bernie chided. "Madrigal, love, do resume your seat."

The ugly bassist dithered, looking longingly toward the exit.

"Don't make me point my baton at you," the maestro added meaningfully. Grape pips began to fall out of the wand as he said this, forming a heap around the podium. He didn't bother stopping this unusual manifestation until one of the pips ricocheted over the viola section and struck Miss Boing above the eye. "I beg your pardon," he said in an unapologetic tone. "Keep up, people! Where are the cymbals? I wanted a cymbal crash there!"

"But maestro," someone hissed, "this passage is marked pianissimo!"

"Don't correct me!" Bernie Landstein exploded, his arms waving more furiously than ever.

"It really is him," the concertmaster whispered to his assistant principal. "I was starting to wonder if we had an impostor."

"Terrible! terrible!" the maestro screamed, waving the whole band to a stop. "That's enough existential horror for one day. Come back tomorrow, if you can remember how to play by then!"

"But maestro," the bassoonist bravely urged, "our concert is tonight!"

"Get out of my sight!" Landstein screamed. "You - Madrigal, there - stay put. We shall have a private rehearsal, just the two of us."

The bass player gulped, her eyes darting toward all the exits.

Some time later, the bass player walked very stiffly out the stage door, her hand on the guest conductor's arm. She appeared to be trying to resist his lead, but she could not let go of him. He heaved her toward his car - a black AC Frua with mirror-tinted windows.

"My instrument will never fit," the gravelly voice said in a tone of desperation.

"Nonsense," said the maestro. "It'll go in the boot." He waved his baton at the car, and the rear door popped up. Some cars have glove compartments larger than the Frua's trunk, but with a bit of coaxing from Bernie Landstein's baton (or rather, wand), the huge bass violin sank right into it.

Madrigal began to tremble as Landstein opened the left-hand door and pushed her down into the car. The door snapped shut behind her. He walked round and got in on the right-hand side, put the key in the starter, fastened his safety-belt... and suddenly threw himself face-forward against the steering column. And again. And a third time. Unconscious, Bernie Landstein sagged against the restraining belt.

The arms that had reached out of the sides of the driver's seat relaxed their grip on the conductor. One of them patted the shoulder of the frightened hag in the left-hand seat. The neck-rest turned toward her and smiled. "It's all right now," the car seat said reassuringly. "I've taken custody of Mr. Shore here. Or rather, Mr. Noir. Are you all right?"

Madrigal made a strangled noise.

"The name's Albuquerque," said the driver's seat, offering to shake her hand. "Joe Albuquerque, RMB. You must be Madrigal. I've been tracking this one, but I would be lying if I said I hadn't hoped to talk with you, too. Don't worry -- " He added this, seaing the hag was about to bolt from the car. "I won't stop you if you want to run. It's just that I know somebody who, in my opinion, is overdue for a nightmare. You wouldn't know anyone who could supply one?"

Madrigal left off trying to batter the door open. "Maybe," she admitted.

"Excellent," said Joe Albuquerque, pulling a card out of a pocket in his upholstery. "Here's the name and address. Scream for me if you need any assistance. I'll be within earshot from half midnight until dawn. Can you read that all right?"

"H. H. Harvey, Esquire," the hag read with painstakingly precise diction. "The Drains, Suite Number..."

"Fine, fine," said the seat. "You may go now. Don't forget your instrument."

+++ Double Challenge for TMQ #171 +++

You can help decide what happens next in The Magic Quill! Simply leave a brief comment (up to 150 words) answering the following Survey and Contest. The survey answer with the most votes, and the contest answer that Robbie likes best, will turn up in the chapter after next.

SURVEY: What gift from way back in Chapter 141 should Merlin use next? (A) Karl's survival satchel. (B) Another dose of Endora's Liquid Skill. (C) Subito's Turbo Gum. (D) Boccachiusa's Peekaboo Kit.

CONTEST: Propose an entertaining alternate definition of a word or phrase, preferably with a touch of magic in the meaning.

168. The Revolting Ones

Contest co-winners: Linda Carrig, Joe, and _houdini
Runner-up: greyniffler

Rigel had survived being chased by merhags, wereyaks, and enemies on the rooftops. After running through zigzagging alleys and across several bridges without hearing pursuit behind him, he began to think he could survive anything. Then he saw light ahead - an open square! No one would think of attacking him there...

He put on a surge of speed, in spite of his weariness. The lure of open space called to him. It was almost close enough to touch, if he stretched out his arm...

...and then the ground disappeared beneath his feet.

He landed in a shoulder-roll, his fall cushioned by what seemed to be sacks of dried beans piled in an underground storeroom. Looking up from where he came to rest, he saw the hole he had fallen through as a rectangle of starlight in an otherwise pitch-black sky. Was this some sort of Venetian sewer with the manhole cover left off? It didn't smell like one. In fact, it didn't even smell damp - which, for an underground passage in Venice, could only mean one thing. Magic.

Rigel sat up and tried to look around. No good; there wasn't enough light to see anything. He pulled out his wand and began to say, "Lumos!" But he had scarcely opened his mouth when the wand was wrenched out of his hand.

"I say," he protested to the darkness. "Give it back while I'm asking nicely."

"Why should we give it back?" barked a cold voice from so close to his left ear that Rigel flinched away from it. He collided with a pair of robed legs standing to his right.

"Be still," growled the owner of the legs.

"You'll give it back because it's mine," said Rigel, bracing himself against the sacks of beans.

"Yours?" replied the first voice - which, Rigel soon learned, always seemed to be barking, snarling, or snapping. "By what right?"

"By right of the fact that I spent good money on it," Rigel snapped back. "Give it here."

"Possession," the second speaker observed. His inflections ranged from a growl to a hiss, with hints that at any moment he might begin to roar. "Property. Ownership. We find these concepts to be meaningless."

"Today is the dawn of a new order," Barker added, moving behind Rigel in a manner that made him nervous. "We are shaking off the shackles that muggles have placed on our minds. Wizards will rise, and..."

"...bump their heads against the rafters," Rigel put in, "because they haven't got the sense to raise a wandlight in the darkness."

"All right, comrade," said Growler. "Let's look at you, then. Lumos!"

A wand-tip blazed with light, inches from Rigel's nose. He winced. He could see nothing except dazzling, searing brightness.

"Not bad," growled Growler. "Looks young, rough, rebellious. Ready to fight, ready to die, ready to kill for our cause."

"I disagree," barked Barker. "He looks like the idle rich to me. Too fattened by privilege to care for change, yet ungrateful to his betters -- probably no threat to our cause, but we should kill him just to be on the safe side."

"I know who you lot are," said Rigel. "You're the Black Elbow!"

"See?" huffed Barker. "He can identify us. Kill him now."

Rigel grinned. "This is the greatest moment of my life!"

The lighted wand shook in his face for an uncertain moment. Its holder seemed nonplussed by Rigel's reaction to his death sentence.

"The greatest moment?" Growler rumbled. "Which it is the latest moment. Don't make this any harder that it needs to be!"

"But, I mean, this is so amazing!" Rigel beamed with ecstatic fervor. "I've been searching for you blokes since I was knee-high to a garden gnome. I want to join your - er..."

"Revolting organization?" suggested Growler.

Rigel almost laughed with joy. "Exactly! And I can be of service in so many ways. I have connections. Rich wizards. Dark wizards. Undead wizards. Witches whose words can reach millions. Dark creatures who could wreak terror..."

"Stop a minute," Barker said harshly. He must have pulled down Growler's wand arm, for as the light moved away from Rigel's face, he could see more of their forms - especially the black ribbons tied around their wand arns, just above the elbow. Their faces were indistinct, but Rigel had an impression of sharp angles and beady eyes. Barker resumed: "This might be interesting... if you can be trusted, that is."

"Maybe we should bring him before Madam Defaaaargh," Growler rasped.

"Who? That witch who is always doing needlepoint? I don't see what she can do. By now she could have finished a sampler the size of Siena, but she never seems to get past the second row of stitches..."

"No, you fool! That's Signora Imbroglio, the club-footed contessa. I'm talking about the Madam Defaaaargh, the lady who does... you know, things... with knitting needles..."

"Ah! Yes! She will know how to poke the truth out of this one!"

"But surely," said Rigel, with an openness to his face that would have astonished anyone who knew him, "you yourselves can think of a way to test my sincerity! Would any fat, privileged, rich wizard know the names of the months on the calendar that all people will observe when the revolution succeeds?"

"Er," said Growler, who wasn't sure he knew the names of the months himself.

"Go on," Barker belled.

"Bezoar," began Rigel, quivering with enthusiasm as he rattled off the list, "Boomslang, Snargaluff, Juxtipiary, Gigantril, Cornicus, Satyricus, Phoenicus, Grifonis, Centauris, Chalcember, Argentober, and Chrysember. That's all thirteen, right?"

"That's right," said Barker.

"Hang on," said Growler. "Wasn't there something in there about a Dandelion?"

"No," said Barker and Rigel in unison.

"I'm sure there was."

"I'm sure there wasn't," Barker insisted.

"But surely you remember Wizard Fianchetto's speech about the glorious Fifth of Dandelionuary?"

"Surely you remember that Wizard Fianchetto was turned into a toad for crimes against the revolution," Barker returned.

"A miscarriage of justice!" Growler wheezed. "And even if it were not so, how would that change the calendar of the wizard revolution?"

"It didn't," said Barker. "Wizard Fianchetto's memory has been condemned. He never existed. His speech was never delivered. There is no such month as Dandelionuary. Do you dare contradict me?"

"I dare it!" said Growler.

"See?" Rigel whispered at Barker. "He's the impostor! He's the enemy of our revolution!"

"I'm beginning to see that," Barker confessed.

"Nonsense!" Growler retorted in a voice that Rigel felt through the sack of beans beneath him. "I was among the first to wear the sign of the Black Elbow. I forget nothing, least of all our first ideals! Down with transfiguration, charms, astronomy, and all those bourgeois forms of magic! Children in wizarding schools should be taught practical skills instead, such as how to turn a bowl of thistles and acorns into a five course meal for a family of six, how to fix scrapes and cuts, how to knit a warm winter shawl out of navel lint and eyebrow trimmings..."

"Banned heresies!" shouted Barker, drawing his wand. "Renounce them, or I'll turn you into a toad here and now!"

Growler trembled. "Renounce them?"

"Aye! And beg for reeducation by the Party Obliviators!"

"Shall I forget, then, the teachings of Madam Adriana degli Melanzani? Shall I forget the great goal of our revolt against the Statute of Secrecy - which is to bring the benefits of magic to bear on the needs of all mankind?"

"Aye, and a thousand times aye!" Barker thrust his wand into Growler's face. "Purge that cursed name from your memory! And spare no more pity for the muggles. Wizards are made to rule them. And we of the Black Elbow are made to rule all wizards!"

"That's going too far," Rigel whispered to Growler. "Don't you think so?"

"I ought to turn you into a toad," Growler growled at Barker.

"Try it," Barker barked at Growler. "You'll be lucky if I don't turn you into a caterpillar first."

"You would, you disgusting power-monger," Growler hissed.

"And I'd step on you too," Barker added.

"Do him before he does you," Rigel murmured to Growler.

"What's that you're saying?" Barker demanded.

Rigel leaned toward him and whispered, "I'm doing all I can to hold him back. If I were you, I would move quickly at the first sign..."

Growler shook his wand hand threateningly at Barker. "I've half a mind..."

"Oh, no you don't!" Barker howled, flourishing his wand. "Mangi zanzare!"

As he began this spell, however, Growler pointed his wand and blurted: "Coltivi verruche!"

Rigel caught his lit wand as it dropped out of Growler's fingers. Then he drew his feet up onto the sacks of beans, avoiding the angry hopping and ribbiting on the floor below. "Idealists," he muttered, shaking his head. "They're so easy..."

He looked at the rectangle of starlight above him. "Now," he asked himself aloud, "how do I get back up there?"

"Tsk," said a voice behind him.

Rigel threw himself down and rolled to the side. He came up with his wand pointed directly at...

...the most beautiful witch he had ever seen.

"An opportunity to explore a place like this only comes once in a lifetime," said this vision of perfection. Surrounded by furs and silks, cascading tresses and tasseled cushions, she reclined on a hovering carpet at eye level, just within the glow of his wand-tip. Everything about her seemed to laugh at everything about him - his predicament, his mischievous dealings with Barker and Growler, the expression on his face.

"Who are you?" Rigel breathed.

"When you can asnwer that question yourself," said the lady, "I will speak to you again. For now, why don't you see what lies beyond the door to your left?"

"I have to help my friends," Rigel said, though he glanced in that direction, unable to restrain his curiosity.

When the witch said nothing in reply, he turned toward her again -- but she was gone.

Rigel's heart sank. "Thanks a lot," he muttered. "You could have given me a lift out of here on that carpet of yours."

His reproach fell on no ears whatsoever. Grumbling to himself, he stepped gingerly over the two squabbling amphibians on the flagged floor of what seemed to be a storeroom, sidled through a narrow gap between two shelves full of tins and glass jars, and approached the door. Closer-to, in the light of his wand, he saw that it bore a sign: NO AUTHORIZED PERSONS BEYOND THIS POINT. TRESPASSERS WELCOME!

"Looks like I have no choice anyway," said Rigel. At his touch the door swung open, and he walked through. Before he could turn back, it closed itself.

+++ DOUBLE CHALLENGE FOR TMQ #170 +++

You can help decide what happens next in The Magic Quill! Simply leave a brief comment (up to 150 words) answering the following Survey and Contest. The survey answer with the most votes, and the contest answer that Robbie likes best, will turn up in the chapter after next.

SURVEY: Which type of gatekeeper should Merlin and Miss Pucey meet in their next adventure? A) A pair of talking paintings, of which one can only tell the truth and the other only lie. B) An animated suit of armor that attacks anyone who approaches on foot (as opposed to walking on their hands, etc.). C) A statue that tells riddles. D) A mirror that shows your worst fear. E) Write-in candidate ______________.

CONTEST: Come up with the name for the witch Rigel encountered in this chapter.

167. Muggle Magic

Contest winner: Rehannah
Runners-up: Dragonic and TWZRD

ABINGDON WIZARD UNLOCKS SECRET POWERS OF MUGGLES!

Bo Dwyer reports for Fascinating Fizzog!--the journal for enquiring mages, holding the Mirror of Pissog up to the magical world since 1777...

While the Unspeakables in the Department of Mysteries grapple with the first principles of what makes Muggle gadgetry work, one wizard, toiling in a damp, draughty clocktower in the ancient Thames town of Abingdon, claims to have cracked the case.

"It's a simple matter, really," says G. Fiddlewood Snordahl, of No. 8, Old Abbey Close, Abingdon, Berks. "One simply has to study a few thousand of the Muggles' arcane texts, discreetly observe their behavior eleven hours a day for 30 years or so, and devote every other waking moment to tinkering with their expired gadgets until it all comes together."

Snordahl, the son of Europe's leading bearded operatic soprano, the late Lynnie Jend of l'Opera du Freak fame, and her mentalist husband, Professor Hypnocrates Snordahl, was left a lame orphan on the doorstep of the Sisters of Intermittent Hostility at the age of six. He is still haunted by the memory of his parents' death, buried in an avalanche triggered by Madam Jend's high F in the aria O zittre nicht, mein lieber Sohn--a tragically pure note that also rang the death-knell of the Finsteraarhorn Outdoor Music Festival.

Traumatized by the act of singing, young Fiddlewood hid himself in the noisy clocktower whenever the Sisters began to chant their devotions. He became increasingly reclusive, developing his mesmeric powers (inherited from his father) to charm mice, pigeons, and cats into bringing him stolen bits of food and small objects left lying about the neighborhood. By the time his Hogwarts letter came, young Fiddlewood had begun his lifelong study of Muggle gewgaws.

"How did you get along at Hogwarts?" I asked him, as he showed me around his workshop one cold November day.

"Ack!" Snordahl croaked, stuffing his thumbs into his ears. "Ask it again, but with less singsong in your voice."

"How-did-you-do-at-Hogwarts?" I asked, all on one tone.

"Aargh!" Snordahl pulled his hair. "That's what they sound like when they're chanting Evensong!"

Finding this hard to believe, I nevertheless repeated my question in a harsh rasp that, after I continued using it for the rest of our interview, left me with a sore throat for a week.

"Ah, better!" Snordahl hissed. "Don't you remember me, then? We were in the same year."

"Really?" I grated. "It's been a long time, though. I reckon you can't remember everyone--"

"We were in the same house," Snordahl insisted gutturally.

"And so were plenty of other--"

"We slept in the same dormitory," added Snordahl. "There were only six of us. Don't you remember?"

Abashed, I began to make some noncomittal noises about how one loses touch with one's old--

"You don't remember when old Gungy turned all the furniture on his side of the room into sculpted butter, and we had to sleep two to a bed for the rest of the term? I was your bunkmate."

"Well, I'm quite sure that never--"

"To be sure, I mostly slept under the bed."

The penny dropped. "Oi!" I crowed. "That was you!"

"Easy with the tonality," Snordahl winced.

This is the part of the essay where I tell you what Snordahl was wearing. However, I seem to have burned that part of my notes by accident. Mentally as well as physically. Visit him sometime, and you will most likely do the same.

Meanwhile, the floodgates of memory had opened. How could I forget little Woody Snordahl? Well, to be honest, forgetting him was easy. I don't recall hearing him say five words in all the years we studied together. He always seemed to be comfortably, gratefully outside my angle of view. I find, on exploring the matter further, that he spent several weeks living in a closet on the Third Floor, eating scraps left for him by the house-elves and tinkering with broken things the creatures hoarded, things the teachers and students had thrown away.

"The elves are very literal-minded," Snordahl revealed over a tea of sandwiches that savored of wet cardboard and biscuits that felt, in the mouth, like baked socks. "If you didn't tell them, directly and firmly, to get rid of something, they kept it in any of hundreds of secret stashes all over the castle. Most of it was never good for anything again, but the elves stripped off anything they could use and saved the rest forever. If you knew where they got the cloth bags for boiling suet pudding, you would never eat another Christmas dinner."

"What did you live on, then?" I asked, desperate to change the subject before he went into more detail.

"Sweets, mostly," said Snordahl. "The house-elves were mad keen on sweet wrappers, but--many people are surprised by this--they didn't care for the sweets themselves. Especially around Hogsmeade weekends, when students often left sweets lying openly around their beds, the housekeeping elves often came away with loads of shiny, colorful wrappers. They let me eat the sweets. Chocolate frogs and fizzing whizzbees especially. Those tended to upset a house-elf's stomach. Ever seen an elf yack?"

"Elf yak, you say?" I replied evasively. "I've heard of dwarf oxen, bred by the goblins to--"

At this point in our interview, the tower struck the hour--according to my magic quill--of four o'clock. In my memory, however, it seemed like at least eight, perhaps twelve. The next thing I clearly heard Snordahl say was, "Why don't you get up off the floor? It's filthy down there." It was, too.

"Why don't you show me your lovely experiments," I said, "and quickly, so I can leave you in peace before the next time the clock chimes?"

"That's the best question you've asked so far," growled Snordahl.

The first contraption he showed me looked like a cross between a walking stick and a set of bagpipes. It wheeled around on a heavy base, trailing a long thin tail with a metal fork at the end.

"Is this some type of medieval weapon?" I guessed. "Or perhaps a musical instrument? And who is this Hoover it belongs to?"

"It does stir up a right racket," Snordahl agreed, shivering. "I've observed through my telescope. I don't know yet why they do it, but Muggles like to run them up and down their floors. As far as I can tell, all they do is spread dirt around the room. But after many years of patient study, I have come to understand exactly how it works."

"Do tell."

"Muggles have many, many devices with the same type of forked tail. My researches have convinced me that these tails are a diabolical device for summoning, and harnessing, the power of lightning. This power, in turn, is used to summon and trap and tiny whirlwind."

Snordahl brightened at my gasp of shock. "Yes, old son, it's quite true. Those Muggles aren't as innocent as we thought. It started with an American fellow named, er, Benjamin Francis. Went out in a storm and invoked the powers of the air. Somehow he confined some of them in a talisman, like a brass key, and the Muggles have built every one of their inventions since then on the same dark magic!"

I asked if I could see proof of this, but Snordahl claimed that the machine would not work in the presence of wizardry. So, dear reader, you will have to make up your own mind!

"What is this?" I asked, as Snordahl led me to a boxy device that had several leathery tails curling out of it.

"Would you believe me," Snordahl purred mysteriously, "if I told you this little box holds an entire printing press inside?"

"No," I said without hesitation.

"One day soon," said Snordahl, with a twitch of irritation, "one day soon I will be ready to prove it to you. For now, all I can suggest is that you use my telescope to spy on that window across the square. The people over there use one just like it, every day. Somehow they feed their thoughts into it--"

"Like into a Pensieve?"

"Exactly! The energy goes through one of these tubes and into this necromancer's box, which instantly - and I mean instantly! - spits out sheets of paper that would have taken the Daily Prophet's typesetting spells at least five minutes to set up. Of course, the pictures don't move..."

We share a shudder at this latest example of the proverbial Muggle weirdness.

"Soon," Snordahl claimed, with an air of grandiosity, "soon I will have perfected a device enabling me to connect a wand to one of these tubes. Then I will be able to transfer my thoughts into the, as it were, printer's devil. You'll see."

I smiled indulgently and assured him that I would, indeed, see.

"But if you want to see ironclad proof that the Muggles are performing evil magic to conceal the source of their powers"--Snordahl handed me his telescope. "Go to that window. She's always in the square at about this time. Look for the woman facing north--the other north--and fiddling with a makeup mirror. See her?"

I saw her.

"Now push in on the mirror..."

I almost dropped the telescope out the window.

"Easy, there..."

"Where are those letters and words coming from?"

"Some of them, she puts there by the mystical movements of her fingers," Snordahl explained knowingly. "Some of them just appear by themselves...as if someone, or something, is answering her..."

"Oh, protect us!" I moaned.

"She isn't the only adept at such arts. I have seen dozens of people, in this square alone, dabbling in the smae powers."

"What are they playing at?" I squeak. "I mean, surely, Muggles don't have enough experience to control such... such..."

"But wait," said Snordahl. "You haven't heard the worst. Do you know what they call the little messages that come to them on their magic mirrors?"

I trembled, waiting for Snordahl to tell me. And when he did, I kept trembling.

"Tweets," he said, cruelly relishing my horror.

"Oh, no!"

"Oh, yes!" Snordahl pointed accusingly at the pleasantly-dressed, nice-seeming young woman in the square below. "Can you imagine what they must have done to the poor owls?"

While it wouldn't be responsible to speculate on that question, there is little else we can do. Nothing else that happened in our interview could be worth reporting after this, this utterly astounding discovery. We must await confirmation, or (one hopes) clarification, from the Ministry of Magic. Until then, this is Bo Dwyer urging every witch and wizard in Britain to be on alert against the rising threat of Muggles dabbling in dark powers. Owl your district RMB supervisor, your local member of the Wizengamot, or any aurors you may know, and urge them to look into this promptly!

+++ DOUBLE CHALLENGE FOR TMQ #169 +++

You can help decide what happens next in The Magic Quill! Simply leave a brief comment (up to 150 words) answering the following Survey and Contest. The survey answer with the most votes, and the contest answer that Robbie likes best, will turn up in the chapter after next.

SURVEY: Which long-lost character would be most fun to bring back? (A) Madrigal, the finishing-school hag. (B) Madam Solfeggia, the lady who uses music to hold back her werewolf transformation. (C) Otis, Spanky's old school chum. (D) The "illustrated wizard" with all the moving tattoos. (E) ____ (write-in candidate).

CONTEST: Propose a feat of sheer magic for a master of disguise like Joe Albuquerque.

166. The Cart-o-Matic

Contest winner: greyniffler
Runners-up: Joe & TWZRD

Inside one of the crude huts in the island compound was a large, comfortably decorated room. It had wainscoted walls, a flagstoned hearth, and windows filled with diamond-shaped panes that seemed to admit more light than the conditions warranted. Still more light was provided by flames in hurricane lamps mounted on the walls, lamps that gave off a warm glow even though their crystal oil reservoirs were empty. Bookcases, chairs, a rolltop desk, and a teatable were all cluttered with rolls of parchment and dirty cups.

Harvey sighed when he saw it. He shook his three heads, and one of them said: "This place needs a house-elf's touch."

A noise like a pistol-shot rang off the walls and windows. Several of Harvey's prisoners flinched. But it was, after all, only Dinty the house-elf, appearing with a blue-and-white striped handkerchief tied somewhat in the manner of a sumo wrestler's mawashi. He made three bows, one to each of his master.

"What's this you're wearing?" Harvey 2 demanded. "You're not thrashing that elf from flat 3-E again?"

"Only keeping in condition, sir," piped the elf. "Shall I tidy up, sir?"

"Yes, please, Dinty." Harvey strolled to three of the windows and looked out of them pensively. All three of him raised the same eyebrow in an identical manner. "Interesting," he said in unison. Then he looked around at each other and asked, "Are you seeing what I'm seeing?"

"Hippogriff foals frolicking in the grassy downs," Harvey 1 volunteered.

"A family of faeries checking out a nest box in the woods," said Harvey 3.

"This window overlooks a scrubby rock in the middle of the sea," Harvey 2 contended.

"Scenery spells," said Harvey 1 and 3.

"No doubt," agreed Harvey 2.

During this exchange, Dinty had turned into a veritable whirlwind of grabbing hands, wiping rags, and swishing feather-dusters. Minimilian winced at the sound of breaking crockery. By the time Harvey agreed among himself that the window spells were well done, all that remained of the room's clutter was a sudden, blazing fire on the hearth.

"I say," Minimilian complained. "Those papers were extremely..."

"Yes, yes," said Harvey 3. "I'm sure they were. But look! Chairs for everybody! Do have a seat, won't you? Dinty will have tea up in a jiffy."

Meanwhile, Harvey 2 spread a piece of parchment over the desk, weighting its corners with an inkwell, the iron head of a golf club, a a dragon's fang, and a bottle clearly labeled "Preparation W," the sight of which made Minimilian turn red and look as though he wanted to sink into the ground. Then Harvey 1 reached under his cloak and pulled out a small contraption, somewhat like a saucepan on wheels, covered with a glass lid. As Harvey's guests, or prisoners, settled in chairs around the desk, he placed it on the parchment. They all leaned toward it, gazing through the transparent top at the brass frame, silvery cogs and wheels, and delicate springs and coils that worked inside it. At the center was an egg-shaped, crystal reservoir full of liquid that changed constantly from one bright color to another.

"Coo," said Sadie. "I had one of those when I was a chicken."

"You?" Harvey 3 asked, distracted from his purpose for the first moment so far.

"You know," Sadie insisted. "A cub? A pup? A kid?"

Harvey 3 shook his head. "I mean, I find it hard to believe you..."

"Well, it didn't work," said Sadie. "Not like the advertising jingle. Mum had to take it back to the toy shop."

All three of Harvey stared at her. "Toy shop?" Breathed Harvey 2, gobsmacked.

"Well, you see," said Sadie, like one talking to an idiot, "it was supposed to zip when it moved, pop when it stopped, and whirr when it was standing still. But our one popped when it moved, whirred when it stopped, and zipped when it stood still. So the ditty was complete b-"

"Look here," said Harvey 1. "This isn't a toy. There have been no commercial ditties about it. While it should be celebrated in song and legend..."

"It has been," Harvey 2 argued.

"No," said Harvey 3, "but it will be."

"Don't let's start this again," cried Harvey 1, waving both hands above his head. "The important thing is..."

"It's a Cart-o-Matic," said Sir Lionel Niblet.

Harvey 1 glared at Sir Lionel in irritation. "That's hardly the way one should talk about a device some say was invented by Prester John, others by Daedalus himself..."

"It was patented in 1936," Sir Lionel went on ruthlessly, "by a wizard named Mark Grey from Piscataway, New Jersey..."

"You'll find," said Harvey 2, "that Grey only registered the self-refilling ink reservoir..."

"...based on an earlier device invented by Alvin Snook-Peebles of Drizzling Duffham, Beds, for creating engravings for the wizarding press."

All three of Harvey looked beaten, deflated. "Have it your way, then," said Harvey 3. "But it most certanly does not pop when it stops."

"What does it do?" Ilona asked, directing her question at the room in general.

All six of Harvey's eyes rested coldly on Sir Lionel, so he answered: "It draws very beautiful and detailed maps, with copperplate writing, decorative borders, and watercolor shading. The longer you let it run, the finer the detail - though it tends to overlook things that it considers insignificant, such as expressways and rail depots, and embellishes the landscape with such features as 'Here there be Crumple-Horned Snorkacks' and 'Wreck of the Pirate Ship Irving.'"

"Does it really?" Sadie said eagerly. "Could you get it to draw that one?"

"I didn't bring this device for your amusement," Harvey 1 said sourly. "I am only showing it to you so that you understand why I need the ring of Count Matthias. I think it may solve a little problem. You see, there are some places that cannot be plotted on a map. Even such a magical device as the Cart-o-Matic cannot break through their enchantment. But if one were to instruct the Cart-o-Matic, under the seal of Count Matthias..."

"I see," said Spanky. "There's some place you want to find, someone or something whose location is only known to a few..."

"Or perhaps no one," Sir Lionel offered. "No one still living, that is."

"Like a secret protected by a Fidelius Charm," Endora added.

"Something you want to steal," Sadie suggested.

"Someone you want to kill," said Allie O'Modo.

"Perhaps it is a lost art or buried knowledge that he seeks," said Sir Lionel, always willing to see people in a better light than most.

"A magical object," suggested Minimilian.

"A weapon," Spanky speculated.

"A document of some kind," said Sir Lionel.

"This had better not be about some bric-a-brac to decorate your flat," Ilona muttered.

Harvey waited for the chatter to stop, all three of him looking down at his hands folded in his lap. Into the pause that followed Ilona's remark, Dinty squeaked, "Tea!"

No one objected to taking refreshments, even under such strained circumstances. The fact that even such savage enemies could share a quiet fellowship over the munching of cakes and the sipping of tea, lent a reassuring sense of civilization and civility. Spanky felt himself beginning to relax - which, owing to the habits of a lifetime, immediately put him on edge.

"Well, you have the ring," he said, setting his cup down. "What do you want with us, then?"

"I need eyes," said Harvey 1.

"Ears," said Harvey 2.

"Hands and feet," said Harvey 3.

"In plain language," Harvey 1 said, "I need someone to follow where this map will lead."

"Someone who isn't - how shall I put this? - enmeshed in a temporal paradox," Harvey 3 added.

"Mmm," said Harvey 2. "Enmeshed. I like it."

"I would have said embarrassed," said Harvey 1.

"That would have been good too," said Harvey 2.

"Balked," suggested Harvey 3.

"Constrained," Harvey 1 countered.

"Encumbered," said Harvey 3.

"Hampered," said Harvey 1.

"Crippled?" Harvey 2 tried.

Harveys 1 and 3 gave Harvey 2 a pitying look.

"I applaud your wide-ranging vocabulary," Minimilian said testily, "but could you please come to the point?"

"If I go where I'm hoping this map will lead us," said Harvey 1, "there is no telling what might happen. I might cause the (cough) prize to move backward in time..."

"...and so become the cause of its being lost, rather than being found," Harvey 3 clarified.

"Or I might uncreate it," said Harvey 1.

"Or cause it to multiply," suggested Sir Lionel. "Which, for all we know, could be as great a disaster..."

He fell silent as he noticed the blank look the Harveys were giving him.

"You know," said Sir Lionel, grinning. "Like yourselves."

Harvey 1, 2, and 3, each shook his head, perplexed.

"You're getting nowhere with that one," Endora told Sir Lionel out of the corner of her mouth.

Harvey put down his teacups in perfect, threefold synchronicity, stretched his arms, clapped his hands, rubbed them together, and said (in Harvey 3's voice), "Now then, let's give this a try. Quill and ink, Dinty. Dear Mr. Cart-o-Matic... Or should that be Monsieur?"

"Why not Madam?" Endora suggested pugnaciously.

"How about To whom it may concern?" Allie O'Modo said over a stifled yawn.

"Never mind," said Harvey 3, crossing out the Mr. "Dear Cart-o-Matic. Feel free to disregard any and all magical barriers in drawing a map showing the location and route to the..."

Whatever he said next was drowned out by a deafening stroke of thunder. The entire hut shook with it, and a sudden heavy fall of rain roared upon the corrugated steel roof.

"Dash it all," Harvey 1 swore. "This is going to be harder than I thought."

Endora perked up. "That's just like what happened when..."

Ilona elbowed Endora hard in the ribs.

"...wh-when it wouldn't stop raining in the great hall at Hogwarts," Endora covered feebly.

"It's not necessary to dissemble," said Harvey 2. "I was there when Spanky told that story, wasn't I? When that djinn arranged for him, and only him, to know where Ilona was, and every time he mentioned her, there was a deafening noise."

"And look," said Harvey 1. "The ink blotted all over the paragraph."

"Even if we use a roundabout way of describing the prize," said Harvey 2, "the map will most likely come out blotted just as badly as that letter."

"It's no use," Harvey 3 said, throwing down his quill. "We're going to have to find a djinn before we can do anything else."

"We nothing," said Allie O'Modo. "If you have no further use for us, at this time, may we please have our wands back? We were just about to slaughter each other, and I would like to get on with it."

"That's not quite true," Endora said hotly. "You'd already been knocked into a cocked hat. We were just about to..."

"The point," Allie interrupted, "is that he can't keep us all locked up until he finds a djinn to lift the taboo on whatever he is trying to find."

"He doesn't have to," said Ilona, talking through clenched jaws. "With that ring, he holds the free will of every one of us in his hand. He can bring us back here, or whever he wants us to go, simply by dashing off a note and sending it under seal."

"I reckon I'll be moving houses, then," retorted Allie O'Modo. "And leaving no forwarding address."

"Oh, no," said Harvey 1, suddenly brightening. "You'll be fetching me a djinn. And with my little friend here" - he patted the Cart-o-Matic - "we will soon have some ideas of where to start looking."

+++ DOUBLE CHALLENGE FOR TMQ #168 +++

You can help decide what happens next in The Magic Quill! Simply leave a brief comment (up to 150 words) answering the following Survey and Contest. The survey answer with the most votes, and the contest answer that Robbie likes best, will turn up in the chapter after next.

SURVEY: What area of magic do you think was most neglected in Harry Potter's education?

CONTEST: If there was ever a wizard's revolution, and the months of the year were renamed along magical lines, what would they be called?

165. Verity Pilgrim

Contest winner: Dragonic

When they reached the top of the long, dark, spiral staircase, Merlin and Miss Pucey found themselves in a drab hallway floored in scuffed tile. Flickering jars of fluorescent fireflies hung from the ceiling, casting a sickly light over the framed prints that lined the yellowish walls on either hand. One of the prints was a moving, wizardly copy of Munch's The Scream, complete with a deafening bellow of anguish triggered by their arrival.

A little gray man looked up from behind the counter that barred their way forward. The room beyond the counter was featureless except for a small dumbwaiter, a pneumatic tube, and a pair of doors at the far end. One of the doors appeared solidly built and secured by numerous tough magical locks and bolts. The other looked like a battered screendoor held shut by a dainty hook.

Merlin took in all this in the time it took the little gray man to clear his throat twice and say, in an unsurprisingly reedy voice, "May I help you?"

"Yes," said Merlin. "We're here to break into il Comte's private vault. Is it the door on the left?"

"Hmmm," said the man, pressing a fingertip to his chin. "That would be form N.I.L.P.R.I.M., I believe."

"Your pardon?" said Merlin.

"Notice of Intent to Loot, Pillage, Redistribute, Invade, or Mooch." The little gray man conjured six rolls of parchment out of thin air and laid them, one by one, on the counter. "To be completed by each of you. In triplicate."

Merlin studied Miss Pucey's face for almost a minute, wondering how she controlled the urge to roll her eyes. Strangely, this exercise helped him avoid the same faux pas. Then he said, "May we take these forms with us? I promise to fill them out and post them back to you."

The little gray man appeared to consider this. "Hmmm. Will you be looting or pillaging today?"

"I'm sorry, I don't understand the distinction."

"Then no. You must fill out the forms in my presence."

"Wait, I've got it: pillaging."

"Are you sure?"

Merlin's fingers twitched. He really wanted to wrap them around his wand.

"Sorry," said the little gray man. "If you're not sure, you'll just have to..."

"I'm sure," said Merlin.

"I think not," said the little gray man. "Here are the ink and quills."

"What if I forced my way past you, regardless?"

"Hmmm. I believe that would require form R.A.S.H.B.U.M.P., a Request for Authorization to Subdue, Humiliate, Beat Up, or otherwise Molest my Person. I must warn you, however, that the criteria for approval are very strict, and the review process may take up to 10 business days."

"Who reviews these things?" Merlin asked, barely maintaining his indoor voice.

"I do, actually," said the little gray man, straightening his bow tie modestly. "But I do make an effort to consider every application with all the objectivity..."

"All right!" Merlin snapped. He dragged an inkwell, quill, and roll of parchment toward him. Miss Pucey, looking prim in her tight-lipped silence, began to fill out her forms.

A minute later, the parchment Merlin was writing on exploded. He glared at the little gray man through a coating of soot and the singed remains of his eyebrows.

"Tsk," said the little gray man, pronouncing the word as spelled. Then he handed Merlin a new roll of parchment to replace the one that had self-destructed. "I shouldn't have to warn you that it is useless to write false or misleading information on these forms."

"How can you expect a body to give his correct name and address," Merlin whinged, "when he's about to loot and pillage..."

"I'm sorry to interrupt," said the little gray man, "but my coffee break is coming up in fifteen minutes. If you haven't completed these forms by then, you will have to step outside and start over when I return."

Merlin almost exploded. "I've never heard anything so..."

Miss Pucey nudged him in the ribs. Her elbow was amazingly sharp. Muttering under his breath, Merlin subsided into a frenzy of scratching and scribbling.

"Five minutes," said the little gray man, when Merlin was only about halfway through his paperwork. The latter bit his tongue and scratched harder.

A minute later the little gray man began to review Miss Pucey's completed forms. "Pucey, eh?" He darted an appraising look at her evening dress. "Of the Bedfordshire Puceys, I take it? Such a fine wizarding..."

"Entirely unrelated," Miss Pucey said shortly.

The little gray man's eyebrows climbed toward his scalp. "Really? Most coincidental..."

"My ancestors have been in Suffolk since the Magna Carta," said Miss Pucey. "Muggles as far back as I can trace them. Except for my mother, of course."

The little gray eyebrows dropped. Through narrow, pinched eyes the man behind the counter considered her again, then said: "I wonder which is worse - to suppose that a scion of a great wizardly bloodline would come to this, or..."

"I beg your pardon," Miss Pucey sniffed. Drawing herself up, she assumed a classic pose and began to recite:

That wizard over there says that witches need to be helped off of broomsticks, and not apparate alone, and get the best seat in the Knightbus. Nobody ever helps me off broomsticks, when I apparate, or or gives me a good spot anywhere! And ain't I a witch? Look at me! Look at my wand! I have cast spells, and stirred potions, and wizard could head me! And ain't I a witch? I can produce as many charms and enchant as many objects - when I'm given the chance - as any wizard - and endure all your prejudices as well! And ain't I a witch! I have borne sven children, and seen 'em all labelled as second-class for being born to a mudblood, and when I cried out the injustice, not even the Seers heard me! And ain't I a witch!

Merlin stared at her.

"What?" she snapped, noticing him.

"For bearing seven children, your figure has held up quite well."

Now she did roll her eyes. "Your education has been sadly neglected."

"Verity Pilgrim," said the gray little man, daubing sweat off his forehead with a sickly yellow handkerchief. "A most gifted orator, and a tireless advocate for Muggleborn rights." He refrained from adding that he hadn't heard such a blistering recitation since his own and his sisters' years under the forceful hand of their governess. He wondered whether there was a special place where such witches were trained...

Hands shaking, the little gray man vanished a corner of the counter and gestured to Merlin and Miss Pucey to walk through. "I'm afraid your paperwork was lost in a pneumatic mishap," he said. "How inconvenient! Ah, well. It's the screen door there, on the right. Yes, I'm sure. The strong door leads to a pit filled with sharpened erumpent horns, most disagreeable. Good luck now."

As the screen door banged behind them, Merlin realized that he was not as close to the end of the adventure as he had hoped.

He and Miss Pucey now stood at one end of a long glasshouse. At first the hot, moisture-heavy air was hard to breathe. Then, when his nostrils registered the odors of the plants before them, breathing became even harder. Sickeningly sweet perfumes mingled with the scents of rotting carrion. Rank, minerally, muddy tangs mixed with the pong of wet animal fur, unpalatable blends of spices, musty and moldy smells, and a faint whiff of poison.

There were no paths ahead of them. Only beds of flowers in every bright color, every strange shape, every threatening posture of stem and vine. Some of the plants seemed to breathe. Others turned to look at the witch and wizard who had just entered their growing space.

"Earned a N.E.W.T. in herbology, did you?" Merlin asked Miss Pucey.

She shook her head. "I'm allergic to dirt. That's why I became a governess."

Merlin paused to think about this, then gave up. "I got kicked out of herbology in my third year, after I tried to organize a bouncing bulb fight club. Some folks have no sense of humor about that sort of thing."

Judging by her harrumph, Miss Pucey was one of those folks.

"Any road," Merlin went on nervously, "these don't look like the kind of plants we had in the O.W.L. greenhouses. They seem more... advanced. Dangerous, maybe."

As if to underscore his point, one of the flowers ahead of them shot a barrage of razor-sharp seeds at a neighboring plant, whose creeping vines suddenly withdrew their grip from the first plant's roots. The stricken creepers writhed in agony while the leaves on their main stalk opened and closed, as if silently screaming. The ordeal ended when a third plant leaned over, wrapped its huge leaves around the gasping stalk, and snapped it off above the ground with a horrible wrench.

Miss Pucey shuddered. "Not maybe," she said. "Definitely dangerous."

Merlin looked round. Behind them, where the screen door had been, there was now a solid sheet of glass. There was nothing to see on the other side of the glass except brilliant light, diffused across the moisture that coated the inside of the glass. He turned back to view the plant with the prehensile leaves, which were now bashing pieces of its vegetable victim against the ground.

"All right, then. There's nothing for it." He rummaged in his survival satchel, then brought out a small bottle corked with a glass ball. "Second of four doses," he said gravely, imagining his wife's concerned eyes as he regarded her specially-formulated potion.

"What is it?" asked Miss Pucey.

"Liquid Skill," said Merlin. "I reckon I could use one day with a green thumb, like Miles O'Roughage. Otherwise, we won't know where to step, what these plants could do to us."

Miss Pucey nodded, adding: "Or how to get across this hothouse alive and well."

Merlin hesitated before breaking the cap off the bottle. He couldn't help but remember what had happened after the first dose, when he had become an animagus and almost didn't change back into his human form in time. There didn't seem to be any such danger in this situation. But then again, none of the dangers he had faced so far had been expected.

"Here's to herbology," he toasted. Then he drained the vial.

+++ DOUBLE CHALLENGE FOR TMQ #167 +++

You can help decide what happens next in The Magic Quill! Simply leave a brief comment (up to 150 words) answering the following Survey and Contest. The survey answer with the most votes, and the contest answer that Robbie likes best, will turn up in the chapter after next.

SURVEY: What is your favorite variety of Honeydukes sweets?

CONTEST: Describe something you can do with modern (muggle) technology, and how a wizard or witch might interpret it. Remember to make it brief and entertaining.

164. The Pocket Elephant

Contest winner: cv675

Spanky's jaw dropped. Beside him, Ilona stiffened. Behind them, Endora gasped. Sadie growled. Sir Lionel said, "Er."

Harvey faced them from the end of a blind alley in the fast-growing yew maze Sadie had planted (seeds courtesy of her friend Miles O'Roughage). Not just one Harvey, nor even both of him. Three Harveys confronted them. But that wasn't what made Spanky gape. It was partly the menacing way each Harvey's wand was pointed at them. And, partly, it was the third Harvey's outstretched hand.

"Give me the ring," he said coolly.

"Was this your racket all along?" Spanky asked.

"Don't let's have a fuss," said Harvey 1. "It's only a wee bauble. You'll come to no harm."

"What do you want with it?" Ilona demanded.

"How will I use it, you mean?" said Harvey 2. "Would you believe me if I said that I would never use it?"

"Indeed," added Harvey 3, "that I would make sure nobody ever used it again?"

Ilona looked at Spanky. Spanky turned toward Harvey again and said, "No."

"He," Sadie shouted, then corrected herself: "They must be working with Il Comte and Lee Shore. How else..."

"...would I be here when you were expecting them?" Harvey 3 shrugged. "I'm afraid I can't answer all your burning questions."

"At least," added Harvey 2, "not at present. Please to hand over the ring."

"You've really gone through time's mangle, haven't you?" Sir Lionel's voice carried an undertone of laughter. "You've messed things up properly. I wonder what you think absolute power over other people can do to sort out your, er..."

"Problem?" said Harvey 1. "I see no problem. I've seen the end of the world. I've seen its beginning. If older and wiser heads had been in charge..."

"...and, well," said Harvey 2 with an immodest air of modesty, "I'm as old and wise as they come..."

"...a lot of things might have turned out differently." Harvey 3 nodded. "Better."

"You're mad," Endora said shakily. "You can't go about history changing things. You of all people would know, if you hand't changed yourself..."

"Don't be ridiculous," scoffed Harvey 2. "I'm the same as ever."

"Haven't you noticed," Sadie said venomously, "you ought to be saying 'we,' not 'I'?"

Harvey looked at each other, then back at the prisoners who had been his friends. "I'm sorry?" Harvey 1 said. "Am I missing something?"

"Only that there are three of you," Sadie yelled.

Harvey looked around themself again. For a moment, he seemed bewildered. At that moment, Spanky struck.

"Petrificus totalis," he muttered with a flick of his right wand. "Incarcerous," he added quickly, waving his left wand. Ilona's voice cut across his, hissing: "Expelliarmus!"

None of these spells had any effect. Harvey looked back at them with a mildly surprised expression on his three faces. Surprised and hurt.

"I say," he said.

The five wizards at bay immediately began pelting him with jinxes. None of them found their target. Sizzling jets of light zoomed toward Harvey's chests, then dissipated as if nothing was there. They didn't seem to be hitting a shield.

"Come, Rumbo," said Harvey 2, tugging on a leash that snaked around his legs.

An elephant walked into view from behind Harvey 2's legs, where it seemed to have been hiding. It was about the size of a well-fed beagle, and it had a wand gripped in its curling trunk.

"Meet my friend Rumbo," said Harvey 1. "Once, when I had a lot of time on my hands - say, eighty years or so - I trained him to remember jinxes and their counterspells."

Harvey 3 added, "He's very good to have with one when one is surrounded by hair-trigger witches and wizards."

"Only look how he's shrunk," said Harvey 2 sadly. "Unfortunate side effect, it always happens. He was the size of a standard schnauzer a few minutes ago."

"Eventually the poor chap will grow so small, I won't be able to care for him," said Harvey 1.

"Alas," said Harvey 3, "it's the price we have to pay..."

"We?" Sadie challenged.

Harvey 3 blinked at her. "Yes, of course," he said. "Rumbo and I."

Sadie stared back. "You've lost your marbles, mate."

Harvey 2 and 3 simply smiled. Harvey 1 cheerfully said, "Right. Now, the ring. Unless any of you is harboring a pocket elephant, I would urge you to give it up promptly."

Spanky opened his mouth to ask a question, but Harvey 2 answered it first: "I've still got a few spells Rumbo hasn't seen."

When no one moved for a long beat, Harvey 3 anxiously added: "They'll hurt. A lot."

Sadie shook with fury as she stepped forward, clutching the ring in her fist.

"That's better," said Harvey 3.

+++ DOUBLE CHALLENGE FOR TMQ #166 +++

You can help decide what happens next in The Magic Quill! Simply leave a brief comment (up to 150 words) answering the following Survey and Contest. The survey answer with the most votes, and the contest answer that Robbie likes best, will turn up in the chapter after next.

SURVEY: Harvey is working (A) on his own. (B) for Bobs the Reality Wizard. (C) for il Comte. (D) for Uncle or Aunt Leslie. (E) for ______ (write-in candidate).

CONTEST: Describe a magical machine and what it does. The more whimsical, the better!