Contest winners: TWZRD, Linda Carrig and rory86
Harvey was lifting the steaming beaker of Essence of Merlin to his lips when the doorbell rang, playing the chorus of Hebrew slaves from Nabucco in full harmony.
“Blast,” Harvey muttered. “Who could be calling at this hour? From Italy, no less?”
He set the beaker down and went out of his study, crossed the enormous front hall of his penthouse apartment, and opened the door. The carillon music stopped instantly.
“May I help you?” Harvey asked the well-dressed, shiny-haired man standing outside. He took care to seem polite but cold.
“I should like to speak with the gentleman of the house,” said the visitor, with a faint trace of an accent.
“I am he,” said Harvey. “But I regret that this is not a convenient time for me to entertain guests.”
“Oh, it won’t take long,” said the visitor, marveling slightly that a man of Harvey’s position would answer his own door. “I only wish to pull your nose; then I shall inconvenience you no further.”
Harvey stifled a sigh. “If an affair of honor is what you’re after, I beg you to come in, Signore...”
“Maledicto,” said Il Comte, handing his cape to a house-elf who trailed him into the apartment. He looked around at the entrance hall with one eyebrow cocked in a jaded fashion. “Ombra here is my second. And yours?”
Harvey snapped his fingers and Dinty crept out from behind a cockatrice-foot umbrella stand.
“The Hildebrand rules?” Harvey asked mildly.
“If you please,” said Il Comte. “Our seconds will negotiate the time and place of our engagement.”
“Actually, if it’s all right with you,” said Harvey, “perhaps we could have the duel here and now. I was just on the point of setting out on a long trip, and I fear that if we wait, you may never be satisfied.”
Il Comte cast another chilly gaze around the hall, then nodded.
“Wands at twenty paces, then,” said Harvey.
The two wizards stood back to back at the center of the hall, then walked in opposite directions, ten paces each. There was little more than an armspan to spare at each end.
“On three,” said Dinty, fidgeting slightly.
“Three!” screamed Ombra, following it up with a fiendish snicker while the two wizards cast simultaneous disarming spells. Both wands jerked out of their owners’ hands and ended up jammed into a crystal chandelier that hovered, unsupported, above the center of the hall.
“How annoying,” said Il Comte.
“Not very sporting, that elf of yours,” Harvey grumbled.
“I find that you weren’t unprepared for it,” Il Comte returned. “What shall we do now?”
“I suppose we should have tea while our seconds get on with the duel,” said Harvey.
Ombra blanched. Dinty grinned, rubbing his knuckles.
“All right, then,” said Il Comte. “Though I should prefer an espresso.”
“Done. Let’s just duck into the library and let the elves carry on,” Harvey suggested, and Il Comte followed him through a doorway into a very cluttered and lived-in room full of books and magical paraphernalia. It also had a table where a tea tray was already sitting, with cups and saucers, spoons, milk jug, sugar bowl, and steaming pot of tea, a plate of sandwiches, a plate of cakes, and a tiny cup of espresso so strong that the flowers in the nearby glass flute were leaning emphatically in the other direction. The two men sat down amiably and began to eat and drink as greedily as good breeding permitted.
“Excellent,” said Il Comte, not only because the espresso tasted good, but also because the cup always seemed to be as full and as hot as when he first picked it up.
“I do my best to please,” said Harvey, as the two house-elves danced past the open door, pulling savagely on each other’s ears. “By the way, I am dying of curiosity. How did I offend you?”
“By meddling in my private affairs,” said Il Comte lightly. “You know, that business with the clowns and their accomplices.”
“Ah, well. I imagine that men in our position have so many affairs, as you say, that it would be remarkable if they never crossed each other.”
“Just so,” said Il Comte, hardly reacting at the series of crashes that accompanied the whoosh of large pieces of furniture flying past the hall door.
“So how goes the evil-doing business?” Harvey asked courteously.
“It grows boring, frankly,” said Il Comte. “After so many years of crushing the same people underfoot, I begin to feel as though nothing I do, however monstrous, even gets their attention. I begin to feel as one who needs new victims.”
“There, there,” said Harvey, mentally filing this information under Il Comte’s constant need to be noticed and admired – or at least, feared. “Have you ever considered moving?”
“To another city or country?” Il Comte came as close to snorting as gentility allowed. “In today’s world, one finds that things are the same everywhere. Now if only one could move to another era...I say, are you all right?”
Harvey patted his chin with a silk napkin, coughed wetly, and said “All right” in a hoarse voice. Meanwhile, Ombra scuttled past the door, ducking under the blows of a wooden spoon that hovered about his head and shoulders, attacking him of its own accord. The next moment a crock smashed somewhere out of sight, and Dinty uttered a dismayed cry.
Fortunately, the combined distractions were enough to move Il Comte off the subject of time control. “And how is your business?” he asked with perfect solicitude.
“Quite absorbing,” said Harvey. “If I had any more to do, I would be meeting myself coming and going.”
At the picture this created in his mind, Il Comte’s eyes took on a dreamly look. “I should like that, I think.”
They paused to sip their drinks, contemplating a little dance that Dinty was doing in the hall outside, while a coarse brush scrubbed him into a prodigious lather of deep-cleansing suds.
“I can’t help but admire your house-elf’s cleaning spells,” Harvey remarked.
“Yes, he’s very efficient,” Il Comte replied immodestly. “But you see, he has such a large house to manage....”
“I perfectly understand,” said Harvey.
Over the next few moments, the hall was filled with a bewildering series of popping sounds as the two house-elves vanished and reappeared again and again, trying to outmaneuver each other. With a triumphant cry, Dinty yanked Ombra’s tea-towel off and ran for it, waving the tea-towel like a triumphal banner while his outraged foe pursued him, using a calling-card tray as temporary cover.
“That’ll be for the laundry,” Harvey observed.
“Then it seems the affair is concluded,” said Il Comte, “in your favor. In which case, I will bid you good day. Do not show me out, I beg you.”
Il Comte took one last fortifying sip of espresso, then stood calmly, brushed some invisible crumbs off his robe, and then whipped out his concealed wand and pointed it at Harvey.
“I can’t begin to express how disappointed this makes me,” Harvey said reproachfully.
Il Comte answered with a hollow laugh. “You yourself called me an evil-doer. Evil is as evil does. I can’t go around playing fair. No one would know whether or when to fear me.”
“I don’t fear you in the slightest,” said Harvey, folding his hands in his lap and sitting back comfortably in his leather armchair.
“The more fool thou,” Il Comte returned.
“On the contrary,” said the other Harvey from over Il Comte’s shoulder. Then, as Il Comte began to turn toward him, he hit him over the head with a round of cheese.
“I say,” said the first Harvey, dismayed to see the cheese broken in pieces and slimed with Il Comte’s hair oil. “I was going to take that cheese on my trip. Couldn’t you have used something less useful, like this bronze thing that Sadie gave us for our last birthday?”
“Daumier’s Le Confident?” said the other Harvey. “We will have returned it to its rightful owner by the time we take the Essence. Unless you change your mind – it’s really up to you from here. I’ll be getting on now—oh, and by the way, don’t drink the Essence until Christmas. Take care of ourself now.” And with that, the second Harvey disapparated.
The seated Harvey sighed, nudged Il Comte with his toe, and waited while the sounds of struggle in the hall died down, confident that Dinty would bring in a very subdued Ombra before long.
“Delays, delays,” he muttered peevishly, and picked up a thin sandwich.
+++ DOUBLE CHALLENGE +++
To send Robbie your personal feedback or original ideas, visit the Feedback Form [EDIT: Rather, leave a Comment]. To vote in the Survey and Contest to determine what happens in the Chapter-After-Next, visit the Discussion Forum [EDIT: This discussion is closed].
SURVEY: Out of Merlin’s companions during his escape from Gringotts – the clowns, the Durmstrang lads, and Rigel – which character should get a “starring role” in the next episode of Merlin’s memories?
CONTEST: Describe an ancient curse and the magic-related object it protects from being stolen.
The Survey answer that gets the most votes, and the Contest entry that Robbie likes the most, will be featured in Magic Quill #108. So be sure to visit our Discussion Thread – and if you aren’t a member of COS Forums, join today!
[Originally posted 11/1/06]
Showing posts with label Ombra. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Ombra. Show all posts
Friday, December 26, 2008
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
88. Mother Goosed
Contest winners: Linda Carrig and _houdini
Disguised as a juggler, Joe made his way to a Muggle street carnival where the three clowns had been lying low, doing non-magical magic tricks, and sometimes magical non-magic tricks, in hopes of having pocket change and (occasionally) ripe fruit hurled at them. When Joe found them, something terrible had happened to each of them.
Signor Boccachiusa, the mime, floated three feet off the cobbled street. Anguish was written all over his face, and radiated from every joint of his ridiculously limber body. He appeared to be trapped inside an invisible box, against which he writhed and struggled. The bystanders laughed, gasped with wonder, and occasionally dropped money into a nearby hat on the ground, while the mime’s eyes pleaded for help. Now and then, a curious child – or, just as often, a mean-spirited adult – would reach into Boccachiusa’s insubstantial prison, and give him a poke or a pinch or a pull on the nose. Joe’s heart broke at the sight of the mime wizard, silently sobbing while a skeptical youth searched for the wires holding him up.
“Get off him,” Joe roared, hurling an orange at the youth’s head, while the latter attempted to climb up on Boccachiusa’s knee. The youth ducked, the orange returned to Joe’s hand, and as the crowd shifted to take in the newest entertaining spectacle, Joe caught sight of Signor Subito. The little clown had been chained to a hurdy-gurdy, which a bored-looking chimpanzee played while Signor Subito danced and capered. From Subito’s jerky movements and sagging head and shoulders, Joe gathered that the small clown was not in control of his own limbs.
The most apalling sight was yet to come. For, just round the corner, stuck inside a wooden booth with a window in front, moving and speaking only when the passersby put money into the machine, was Don Pagliai. Joe was struck speechless by the sight of the lively old clown, reduced to a lifeless dummy that had nothing to say except nursery rhymes...
“Mary had a little moke,” Don Pagliai said in a mechanical sing-song, while unseen instruments set up a ghastly accompaniment. “Its skin was silvery green, and everywhere that Mary went, the moke was never seen...”
Joe rushed forward, dropping several apples and a banana, and dispersing a small crowd of scoffing teenagers. “Don Pagliai,” he cried. “Do you remember me? I was your first pupil in the Laughing Academy you set up after you disappeared and reappeared. Remember? I was only brushing up on my quick-change skills, but you said I had a real talent, especially when I could play all twenty-one clowns in one phone box..."
"It would shrink into a little ball, no bigger than a tack,” Don Pagliai continued, chanting right through Joe’s speech, “and hide itself way down inside of Mary's bright red sack..."
Then, mercifully, the machine wound down, and a coin dropped noisily into the nether regions of the carnival attraction Don Pagliai had become.
Joe groaned, then dug hopefully in his robes for another coin. “You have to speak to me,” he pleaded to the still, seemingly wooden face behind the glass. “Tell me what Il Comte did to you, and how I can fix it.”
Don Pagliai’s jaws opened and a voice not his own chanted:
There was a wizard man,
Who flew a wizard mile.
He found some wizard money,
Upon a wizard stile.
He bought a little kneazle,
Who caught a wizard mouse,
And they all lived together,
In a little wizard house.
“Eh?” said Joe, scratching his jaw. “If you’re trying to tell me something, I think I missed it. Aha! One more knut should do it...”
Another invisible band struck up, and a merry voice began to sing out of Don Pagliai’s mouth:
Old MacGonagall had a farm EIEIO
and on her farm she had a Ghoul EIEIO
With a moaning here and growling there
Here a moan there a growl
Everywhere "grr, grr"
Old MacGonagall had a farm EIEIO!
This was no good, and Joe knew it. It was complete nonsense; the sort of silliness little wizards and witches learned from their parents and nurses. Apart from the ghastliness of hearing those words come out of the mouth of one of his old mentors, against the old clown’s will, there seemed to be no reason for the rhyme. The most ghastly bit was that the voice seemed lifelike and animated, while the face did not.
Joe slumped miserably next to the machine while it went into a second stanza:
Old MacGonagall had a farm EIEIO
and on her farm she had a Troll EIEIO
With a "grunt, grunt" here and "grunt, grunt" there
Here "grunt" there "grunt"
Everywhere "grunt, grunt"
Old MacGonagall had a farm EIEIO!
“You’re a big help,” Joe muttered as the machine ground to a halt again. “What am I going to do?”
Then he noticed something sticking out of the coin-return slot. It looked like the corner of a handkerchief. First gazing up inquisitively at the impassive clown under glass, Joe gave the silk a tug. It was a handkerchief. And somehow, Joe was able to read the words scribbled on it in dried-up whipped cream (from a pie the clown had, no doubt, kept in his pocket in case of emergency).
Jack, get Nimbus,
Jack, be quick,
Jack, fly over the candlestick.
At first, Joe’s heart sank. It was just another nursery rhyme!
Then an interesting thought struck Joe. All of the nursery rhymes the mechanical Don Pagliai had chanted, had to do with some magical creature being confined – a moke in a bag, a mouse and a kneazle in a wizard’s house, a troll and a ghoul on a farm – but the rhyme on the handkerchief broke the pattern. Was Don Pagliai trying to communicate? Was it a clue about using a broom – or fire –
“No, you fool,” he said to himself, almost a moment too late, “it’s just a warning to get out of the way QUICKLY...”
Joe was still finishing this thought as he rolled headlong across the street, between the legs of carnival-goers and the wheels of carts and bicycles. Had he moved a moment later, the curse that disintigrated the wall next to the Nursery Rhyme Machine would have disintegrated Joe instead.
Il Comte cursed under his breath. In the confusion of running, screaming Muggles, he had lost sight of the juggler-wizard. He walked round the corner, blending into the crowd as much as a perfectly dressed man with a regal bearing and blindingly glossy hair could blend in with any random group of camera-toting, shorts-and-T-shirt-wearing, sunburned American tourists and grimy street children. He looked round, saw Ombra the house-elf standing nervously next to a dustbin with his master’s great cloak draped over its arm, and beckoned impatiently to the servant.
Ombra hastened over, taking great pains to avoid dragging the cloak on the ground.
“I don’t know who that was,” said Il Comte, handing his wand to the house-elf while he put on his cloak.
“I do,” said Ombra, leveling the wand at his master.
Il Comte hesitated for the briefest of instants, then laughed. “Are you hoping to become a clown one day, when you grow up?”
“I’ve already been one,” said Ombra, and before Il Comte could make another move, enough spider-silk shot out of the wand to keep Il Comte tied up for hours.
Some of the passersby gasped, then applauded and threw coins while Ombra bowed and smiled. As soon as he was able, the house-elf darted behind the dustbin, where the real Ombra lay tied up with a rope made of knotted handkerchiefs. Joe Albuquerque emerged a moment later, this time disguised as a local policeman. He used Il Comte’s wand to reverse a few nasty spells, threw it down a sewer, and within a few minutes was seated with three exhausted clowns in an exclusive, wizarding café.
“You are still the best student we have ever taught,” Don Pagliai said, almost tearful with gratitude, between deep thirsty draughts of wine.
Signor Subito said something that contained most of the Italian swear words Joe knew.
"Yes, I agree,” said Don Pagliai, tilting one of his bushy eyebrows toward Joe. “It’s the last place we would ever want to go, but it is the only place where we can hope to be safe from Il Comte, – "
Subito let fly another stream of rapid, and not very clean, language. Signor Boccachiusa made hand gestures as if to say, “Hear him!”
“ – indeed,” Pagliai translated, “the only place where we can find the means of being rid of Signor Maledicto forever!”
Joe shivered slightly at the deadly seriousness in the old clown’s tone. “And what place is that?” he asked, with a rising feeling of foreboding.
“Why, exactly where you are headed,” said Don Pagliai. “Gringotts!”
+++ DOUBLE CONTEST FOR TMQ #90 +++
To send Robbie your personal feedback or original ideas, visit the Feedback Form [EDIT: Rather, leave a Comment]. To vote in the Double Contest to determine what happens in the Chapter-After-Next, visit the Discussion Forum [EDIT: This discussion is closed].
CONTEST #1: Make up an advertising slogan for a wizarding business or product.
CONTEST #2: Briefly describe an occupation which would be really...er...”different” in the wizarding world.
The Contest entries that Robbie likes the most will be featured in Magic Quill #90. So be sure to visit our Discussion Thread – and if you aren’t a member of COS Forums, join today!
[Originally posted 5/7/06]
Note to our readers: Endora was the clear winner of the survey about which character’s background you want to hear more about. But this week, the requirements of the plot line (including winning survey answers from the past few weeks) squeezed Endora out. Sorry! You’ll hear about her next time – you have our joint word as a Muggle and a Magic Quill. Meanwhile, enjoy this story that “just happened”...and then, instead of a Survey and Contest for Magic Quill #90, you can take part in TWO contests!Joe Albuquerque found the clown wizards quickly, but Il Comte had found them first.
Disguised as a juggler, Joe made his way to a Muggle street carnival where the three clowns had been lying low, doing non-magical magic tricks, and sometimes magical non-magic tricks, in hopes of having pocket change and (occasionally) ripe fruit hurled at them. When Joe found them, something terrible had happened to each of them.
Signor Boccachiusa, the mime, floated three feet off the cobbled street. Anguish was written all over his face, and radiated from every joint of his ridiculously limber body. He appeared to be trapped inside an invisible box, against which he writhed and struggled. The bystanders laughed, gasped with wonder, and occasionally dropped money into a nearby hat on the ground, while the mime’s eyes pleaded for help. Now and then, a curious child – or, just as often, a mean-spirited adult – would reach into Boccachiusa’s insubstantial prison, and give him a poke or a pinch or a pull on the nose. Joe’s heart broke at the sight of the mime wizard, silently sobbing while a skeptical youth searched for the wires holding him up.
“Get off him,” Joe roared, hurling an orange at the youth’s head, while the latter attempted to climb up on Boccachiusa’s knee. The youth ducked, the orange returned to Joe’s hand, and as the crowd shifted to take in the newest entertaining spectacle, Joe caught sight of Signor Subito. The little clown had been chained to a hurdy-gurdy, which a bored-looking chimpanzee played while Signor Subito danced and capered. From Subito’s jerky movements and sagging head and shoulders, Joe gathered that the small clown was not in control of his own limbs.
The most apalling sight was yet to come. For, just round the corner, stuck inside a wooden booth with a window in front, moving and speaking only when the passersby put money into the machine, was Don Pagliai. Joe was struck speechless by the sight of the lively old clown, reduced to a lifeless dummy that had nothing to say except nursery rhymes...
“Mary had a little moke,” Don Pagliai said in a mechanical sing-song, while unseen instruments set up a ghastly accompaniment. “Its skin was silvery green, and everywhere that Mary went, the moke was never seen...”
Joe rushed forward, dropping several apples and a banana, and dispersing a small crowd of scoffing teenagers. “Don Pagliai,” he cried. “Do you remember me? I was your first pupil in the Laughing Academy you set up after you disappeared and reappeared. Remember? I was only brushing up on my quick-change skills, but you said I had a real talent, especially when I could play all twenty-one clowns in one phone box..."
"It would shrink into a little ball, no bigger than a tack,” Don Pagliai continued, chanting right through Joe’s speech, “and hide itself way down inside of Mary's bright red sack..."
Then, mercifully, the machine wound down, and a coin dropped noisily into the nether regions of the carnival attraction Don Pagliai had become.
Joe groaned, then dug hopefully in his robes for another coin. “You have to speak to me,” he pleaded to the still, seemingly wooden face behind the glass. “Tell me what Il Comte did to you, and how I can fix it.”
Don Pagliai’s jaws opened and a voice not his own chanted:
There was a wizard man,
Who flew a wizard mile.
He found some wizard money,
Upon a wizard stile.
He bought a little kneazle,
Who caught a wizard mouse,
And they all lived together,
In a little wizard house.
“Eh?” said Joe, scratching his jaw. “If you’re trying to tell me something, I think I missed it. Aha! One more knut should do it...”
Another invisible band struck up, and a merry voice began to sing out of Don Pagliai’s mouth:
Old MacGonagall had a farm EIEIO
and on her farm she had a Ghoul EIEIO
With a moaning here and growling there
Here a moan there a growl
Everywhere "grr, grr"
Old MacGonagall had a farm EIEIO!
This was no good, and Joe knew it. It was complete nonsense; the sort of silliness little wizards and witches learned from their parents and nurses. Apart from the ghastliness of hearing those words come out of the mouth of one of his old mentors, against the old clown’s will, there seemed to be no reason for the rhyme. The most ghastly bit was that the voice seemed lifelike and animated, while the face did not.
Joe slumped miserably next to the machine while it went into a second stanza:
Old MacGonagall had a farm EIEIO
and on her farm she had a Troll EIEIO
With a "grunt, grunt" here and "grunt, grunt" there
Here "grunt" there "grunt"
Everywhere "grunt, grunt"
Old MacGonagall had a farm EIEIO!
“You’re a big help,” Joe muttered as the machine ground to a halt again. “What am I going to do?”
Then he noticed something sticking out of the coin-return slot. It looked like the corner of a handkerchief. First gazing up inquisitively at the impassive clown under glass, Joe gave the silk a tug. It was a handkerchief. And somehow, Joe was able to read the words scribbled on it in dried-up whipped cream (from a pie the clown had, no doubt, kept in his pocket in case of emergency).
Jack, get Nimbus,
Jack, be quick,
Jack, fly over the candlestick.
At first, Joe’s heart sank. It was just another nursery rhyme!
Then an interesting thought struck Joe. All of the nursery rhymes the mechanical Don Pagliai had chanted, had to do with some magical creature being confined – a moke in a bag, a mouse and a kneazle in a wizard’s house, a troll and a ghoul on a farm – but the rhyme on the handkerchief broke the pattern. Was Don Pagliai trying to communicate? Was it a clue about using a broom – or fire –
“No, you fool,” he said to himself, almost a moment too late, “it’s just a warning to get out of the way QUICKLY...”
Joe was still finishing this thought as he rolled headlong across the street, between the legs of carnival-goers and the wheels of carts and bicycles. Had he moved a moment later, the curse that disintigrated the wall next to the Nursery Rhyme Machine would have disintegrated Joe instead.
Il Comte cursed under his breath. In the confusion of running, screaming Muggles, he had lost sight of the juggler-wizard. He walked round the corner, blending into the crowd as much as a perfectly dressed man with a regal bearing and blindingly glossy hair could blend in with any random group of camera-toting, shorts-and-T-shirt-wearing, sunburned American tourists and grimy street children. He looked round, saw Ombra the house-elf standing nervously next to a dustbin with his master’s great cloak draped over its arm, and beckoned impatiently to the servant.
Ombra hastened over, taking great pains to avoid dragging the cloak on the ground.
“I don’t know who that was,” said Il Comte, handing his wand to the house-elf while he put on his cloak.
“I do,” said Ombra, leveling the wand at his master.
Il Comte hesitated for the briefest of instants, then laughed. “Are you hoping to become a clown one day, when you grow up?”
“I’ve already been one,” said Ombra, and before Il Comte could make another move, enough spider-silk shot out of the wand to keep Il Comte tied up for hours.
Some of the passersby gasped, then applauded and threw coins while Ombra bowed and smiled. As soon as he was able, the house-elf darted behind the dustbin, where the real Ombra lay tied up with a rope made of knotted handkerchiefs. Joe Albuquerque emerged a moment later, this time disguised as a local policeman. He used Il Comte’s wand to reverse a few nasty spells, threw it down a sewer, and within a few minutes was seated with three exhausted clowns in an exclusive, wizarding café.
“You are still the best student we have ever taught,” Don Pagliai said, almost tearful with gratitude, between deep thirsty draughts of wine.
Signor Subito said something that contained most of the Italian swear words Joe knew.
"Yes, I agree,” said Don Pagliai, tilting one of his bushy eyebrows toward Joe. “It’s the last place we would ever want to go, but it is the only place where we can hope to be safe from Il Comte, – "
Subito let fly another stream of rapid, and not very clean, language. Signor Boccachiusa made hand gestures as if to say, “Hear him!”
“ – indeed,” Pagliai translated, “the only place where we can find the means of being rid of Signor Maledicto forever!”
Joe shivered slightly at the deadly seriousness in the old clown’s tone. “And what place is that?” he asked, with a rising feeling of foreboding.
“Why, exactly where you are headed,” said Don Pagliai. “Gringotts!”
+++ DOUBLE CONTEST FOR TMQ #90 +++
To send Robbie your personal feedback or original ideas, visit the Feedback Form [EDIT: Rather, leave a Comment]. To vote in the Double Contest to determine what happens in the Chapter-After-Next, visit the Discussion Forum [EDIT: This discussion is closed].
CONTEST #1: Make up an advertising slogan for a wizarding business or product.
CONTEST #2: Briefly describe an occupation which would be really...er...”different” in the wizarding world.
The Contest entries that Robbie likes the most will be featured in Magic Quill #90. So be sure to visit our Discussion Thread – and if you aren’t a member of COS Forums, join today!
[Originally posted 5/7/06]
77. Lilly Grate
Contest Winner: Eagleanimagus
Poor, sensitive Signor Boccachiusa could not stand to watch the duel between Il Comte and the considerably less dapper, but much braver, British wizard. While the lads from Durmstrang gathered around the fight to chant, “Ugly Stick! Ugly Stick!” and the other clowns fussed over the baby who was actually a twentyish-year-old man who had fallen victim to an overdose of Yesterday Pills, the mime wizard wandered.
The hall they were in was identical to the one where Il Comte had force-fed them dinner, except for its contents. As Boccachiusa strolled along the arcaded paths, he observed a variety of magically-potted plants that he had never seen before. One shrub was covered with odd little blossoms that quivered and made sniffing noises as Boccachiusa passed. A sign poking into the pot declared: “The Nosebush: Smelliest Plant in the Civilized World.” A bit further on, the mime was alarmed to see smoke issuing from several large, closed buds – until he noticed the sign saying, “Fire-Breathing Snapdragons: Best When Planted above Buried Treasure.” After that point, Boccachiusa was careful to keep his distance as he strolled past such plants as the Patty-cake Cactus, the Vampire Bougainvillea, the Chocolate Milkweed, and the Pear- shaped Problem Plant (whose root, if you can dig down to it, is the only part that will do you any good).
Before he knew what he was doing, Boccachiusa had wandered into a long tented area, where rows of house-elves wearing surgical masks were chopping, grinding, and crushing all kinds of flower petals. Hastily, Boccachiusa snatched a mask out of a box near the wall and put it on. It wouldn’t do much to disguise him, but after many years as a mime, Boccachiusa had learned to make an art out of moving silently. The house-elves paid him no notice.
Boccachiusa was beginning to wonder what the house-elves were doing there, when he came to the far end of the enclosure and saw bottles of glittery powder being corked and added to a crate with the words LILLY GRATE stencilled on it. The mime’s painted-on eyebrows lifted, and his bright red lips formed a silent O.
Meanwhile, the duel between Il Comte (wielding a Stupid Stick) and the British wizard (with an Ugly Stick) went back and forth. Mostly the sticks just banged against each other as both men furiously slashed, thrusted, and parried. But now and then, one of the sticks touched a piece of clothing. This would explain why Il Comte’s vest had turned a horrible shade of orangey-brown, and why his ascot looked like something a coal miner had used to mop his brow. It would also explain why Merlin’s shoelaces were tied together, and his robes were on back to front, and his hat kept trying to slip down over his eyes.
Little by little, the tide was turning against Merlin. It wasn’t just that Il Comte was a better fencer, but stupid clothing was so much more restricting than ugly clothing. The next hit that went home, on Merlin’s chest, caused an enormous buttonhole flower to blossom there – a flower whose scent made Merlin’s eyes water and his nose itch. He began to despair...it would all be over in another few strokes...
Suddenly something smashed at Il Comte’s feet. A glittery cloud rose up, and Il Comte coughed. Before Merlin could find out what was going on, a thin white hand pressed something over his face. Merlin struggled, then found that he had a surgical mask on. Looking around, he saw that all of his companions, including little Rigel, were similarly protected. Then he turned back toward Il Comte, awaiting the villain’s next attack.
The cloud around Il Comte dissipated slowly. When it had gone, Merlin found his enemy standing with his hands down at his sides, staring dreamily off into the distance.
Merlin looked quizzically over to Signor Boccachiusa, who responded with a series of incomprehensible signs. Don Pagliai interpreted: “Il Comte has pricked his thumb on his own spindle. My associate here found a house-elf sweatshop where Il Comte is producing Lilly Grate. It is a rare powder, compounded from a bit of every flower in the world. One sniff sends the victim off into a daydream for hours. I would estimate that Il Comte has just inhaled about twenty years’ worth.”
“That should keep him out of trouble, then,” said Merlin grimly. “I daresay Ombra will make sure he gets fed regularly. Now, let’s find a way out of here.”
Don Pagliai fidgeted. “I deeply fear that the only way out, without Il Comte’s blessing, is back the way we came.”
At this Merlin exploded with fury. “Then why did you wish us here, you magnificent fool?”
The magnificent fool was unsure whether he had just been complimented or insulted. He shook his head sadly. “I am not here since many years. I did not realize what kinds of security charms Il Comte had set around this place. I think he was planning to become the next He-Who-Must- Not-Be-Named, until the real He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named came back, and now...now, I suppose, he is keeping his head down until the next big opportunity.”
“Well, that won’t be for another twenty years or so,” Merlin said, regaining most of his composure. “But that leaves us with two problems. The first problem is: should we wait here for twenty years, and then see if we can persuade Il Comte to let us go? Or should we try to get back to Gringotts, which is the last place in the world any of us ever wants to see again?”
“This place isn’t so bad,” said Anatoly.
“At least with Gringotts, there is small chance that we could escape in less than twenty years,” Slavik put in.
“But are ve sure there is no vay to escape from here?” said Karl.
Jaan made a remark in his own language, which Slavik translated: “He says, is not only wizard magic that seals this place. Is much house-elf magic too. Very difficult to break.”
“But the house-elves...” Merlin began.
“...are loyal to His Pestilency,” Don Pagliai insisted, “in spite of how he treats them.”
At that moment, Il Comte sighed.
“I just wish you hadn’t been so hasty when you told the genie to send us here,” Merlin muttered gruffly.
“I know,” said Pagliai, shaking his towering, purple-haired head with regret. “I know. I, too, wish that.”
POP!
Il Comte disappeared. His vast hall disappeared with him. In their place, the nine companions found themselves surrounded by familiar stone walls and casks, bottles, and barrels of wine.
“Welcome back – hic!” squeaked a voice near Merlin’s ankle. He looked down and saw a chubby little fellow struggling to uncork a bottle of Chianti. “Would you – hic – mind giving me a hand?”
“That was easier than I thought it would be,” said Don Pagliai, torn between a sigh of relief and a groan of misery.
“Well, you ’ad – hic – two more wishes, didn’t – hic – didn’t you?” the inebriated genie said, as Merlin tapped the bottle with his finger. The cork slid out with a soft popping noise. It was one bit of wandless magic Merlin had perfected over the years. When he stood the bottle next to the genie, he saw that the little man might have trouble drinking from it; the top of the bottle was as high as the genie’s head.
But Merlin was not interested in watching what the genie would do. He turned quickly toward Don Pagliai.
“Before you say another word,” he hissed at the trembling clown wizard, “We had better think about what your next wish will be.”
They conferred. The Durmstrang lads gathered around them and put in their ideas. Quietly they murmured together, with an occasional outburst from someone saying, “But the goblins will have made sure...” or, “That could have more than one meaning!” Unconcerned, the genie struggled with the bottle, finding that if he tipped it over too far, he got drenched in wine; but if he didn’t tip it far enough, nothing would come out. He was starting to think wistfully about the advantages of being able to fit inside the bottle, when the circle of wizards broke up and Don Pagliai knelt down to face the little genie.
“It’s like this,” said the fat clown wizard. “That all nine of us should be in a place from which we can make a safe and speedy escape from Gringotts Bank – that is our wish.”
“Not tha’ you were simply out of ’ere?” the genie said, surprised.
“Too many possible ways that could end up being worse than this,” Pagliai said sadly.
The genie shook his head. “Wizards today,” he complained. “Too clever by ’alf. Takes all the fun out of doin’ this job.”
“Just grant the wish,” Merlin snarled.
“Well, la-di-dah,” said the genie, and the vault went dark.
Dark, that is, until Merlin located his once-used, homemade wand and lit its tip. More water than light came out of it, as usual. After a few minutes their eyes had adjusted to this dim, damp light, and they counted heads and saw that everyone was there. Then they recognized their surroundings. It was a vast, cave-like chamber. Seven passages branched off from the wall ahead of them.
Once again, they were in the Pit.
Merlin swore loudly. Then he said, “We’ve been had!”
+++ DOUBLE CHALLENGE FOR TMQ #79 +++
To send Robbie your personal feedback or original ideas, visit the Feedback Form. To vote in the Survey and Contest to determine what happens in the Chapter-After-Next, visit the Discussion Forum. [EDIT: These are old instructions. You can use Comments to respond to this blog.]
The SURVEY: Will Rigel get restored to his correct age? Or will he have to grow up all over again, with Merlin as his guardian?
The CONTEST: Give the title and a brief explanation of an original BOOK that might be found in the Hogwarts library.
The Survey Answer that gets the most votes in the forum, and the Contest entry that Robbie likes the most, will be featured in Magic Quill #79. So be sure to visit our Discussion Thread, and don’t just lurk – please participate!
[Originally posted 1/13/06]
Poor, sensitive Signor Boccachiusa could not stand to watch the duel between Il Comte and the considerably less dapper, but much braver, British wizard. While the lads from Durmstrang gathered around the fight to chant, “Ugly Stick! Ugly Stick!” and the other clowns fussed over the baby who was actually a twentyish-year-old man who had fallen victim to an overdose of Yesterday Pills, the mime wizard wandered.
The hall they were in was identical to the one where Il Comte had force-fed them dinner, except for its contents. As Boccachiusa strolled along the arcaded paths, he observed a variety of magically-potted plants that he had never seen before. One shrub was covered with odd little blossoms that quivered and made sniffing noises as Boccachiusa passed. A sign poking into the pot declared: “The Nosebush: Smelliest Plant in the Civilized World.” A bit further on, the mime was alarmed to see smoke issuing from several large, closed buds – until he noticed the sign saying, “Fire-Breathing Snapdragons: Best When Planted above Buried Treasure.” After that point, Boccachiusa was careful to keep his distance as he strolled past such plants as the Patty-cake Cactus, the Vampire Bougainvillea, the Chocolate Milkweed, and the Pear- shaped Problem Plant (whose root, if you can dig down to it, is the only part that will do you any good).
Before he knew what he was doing, Boccachiusa had wandered into a long tented area, where rows of house-elves wearing surgical masks were chopping, grinding, and crushing all kinds of flower petals. Hastily, Boccachiusa snatched a mask out of a box near the wall and put it on. It wouldn’t do much to disguise him, but after many years as a mime, Boccachiusa had learned to make an art out of moving silently. The house-elves paid him no notice.
Boccachiusa was beginning to wonder what the house-elves were doing there, when he came to the far end of the enclosure and saw bottles of glittery powder being corked and added to a crate with the words LILLY GRATE stencilled on it. The mime’s painted-on eyebrows lifted, and his bright red lips formed a silent O.
Meanwhile, the duel between Il Comte (wielding a Stupid Stick) and the British wizard (with an Ugly Stick) went back and forth. Mostly the sticks just banged against each other as both men furiously slashed, thrusted, and parried. But now and then, one of the sticks touched a piece of clothing. This would explain why Il Comte’s vest had turned a horrible shade of orangey-brown, and why his ascot looked like something a coal miner had used to mop his brow. It would also explain why Merlin’s shoelaces were tied together, and his robes were on back to front, and his hat kept trying to slip down over his eyes.
Little by little, the tide was turning against Merlin. It wasn’t just that Il Comte was a better fencer, but stupid clothing was so much more restricting than ugly clothing. The next hit that went home, on Merlin’s chest, caused an enormous buttonhole flower to blossom there – a flower whose scent made Merlin’s eyes water and his nose itch. He began to despair...it would all be over in another few strokes...
Suddenly something smashed at Il Comte’s feet. A glittery cloud rose up, and Il Comte coughed. Before Merlin could find out what was going on, a thin white hand pressed something over his face. Merlin struggled, then found that he had a surgical mask on. Looking around, he saw that all of his companions, including little Rigel, were similarly protected. Then he turned back toward Il Comte, awaiting the villain’s next attack.
The cloud around Il Comte dissipated slowly. When it had gone, Merlin found his enemy standing with his hands down at his sides, staring dreamily off into the distance.
Merlin looked quizzically over to Signor Boccachiusa, who responded with a series of incomprehensible signs. Don Pagliai interpreted: “Il Comte has pricked his thumb on his own spindle. My associate here found a house-elf sweatshop where Il Comte is producing Lilly Grate. It is a rare powder, compounded from a bit of every flower in the world. One sniff sends the victim off into a daydream for hours. I would estimate that Il Comte has just inhaled about twenty years’ worth.”
“That should keep him out of trouble, then,” said Merlin grimly. “I daresay Ombra will make sure he gets fed regularly. Now, let’s find a way out of here.”
Don Pagliai fidgeted. “I deeply fear that the only way out, without Il Comte’s blessing, is back the way we came.”
At this Merlin exploded with fury. “Then why did you wish us here, you magnificent fool?”
The magnificent fool was unsure whether he had just been complimented or insulted. He shook his head sadly. “I am not here since many years. I did not realize what kinds of security charms Il Comte had set around this place. I think he was planning to become the next He-Who-Must- Not-Be-Named, until the real He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named came back, and now...now, I suppose, he is keeping his head down until the next big opportunity.”
“Well, that won’t be for another twenty years or so,” Merlin said, regaining most of his composure. “But that leaves us with two problems. The first problem is: should we wait here for twenty years, and then see if we can persuade Il Comte to let us go? Or should we try to get back to Gringotts, which is the last place in the world any of us ever wants to see again?”
“This place isn’t so bad,” said Anatoly.
“At least with Gringotts, there is small chance that we could escape in less than twenty years,” Slavik put in.
“But are ve sure there is no vay to escape from here?” said Karl.
Jaan made a remark in his own language, which Slavik translated: “He says, is not only wizard magic that seals this place. Is much house-elf magic too. Very difficult to break.”
“But the house-elves...” Merlin began.
“...are loyal to His Pestilency,” Don Pagliai insisted, “in spite of how he treats them.”
At that moment, Il Comte sighed.
“I just wish you hadn’t been so hasty when you told the genie to send us here,” Merlin muttered gruffly.
“I know,” said Pagliai, shaking his towering, purple-haired head with regret. “I know. I, too, wish that.”
POP!
Il Comte disappeared. His vast hall disappeared with him. In their place, the nine companions found themselves surrounded by familiar stone walls and casks, bottles, and barrels of wine.
“Welcome back – hic!” squeaked a voice near Merlin’s ankle. He looked down and saw a chubby little fellow struggling to uncork a bottle of Chianti. “Would you – hic – mind giving me a hand?”
“That was easier than I thought it would be,” said Don Pagliai, torn between a sigh of relief and a groan of misery.
“Well, you ’ad – hic – two more wishes, didn’t – hic – didn’t you?” the inebriated genie said, as Merlin tapped the bottle with his finger. The cork slid out with a soft popping noise. It was one bit of wandless magic Merlin had perfected over the years. When he stood the bottle next to the genie, he saw that the little man might have trouble drinking from it; the top of the bottle was as high as the genie’s head.
But Merlin was not interested in watching what the genie would do. He turned quickly toward Don Pagliai.
“Before you say another word,” he hissed at the trembling clown wizard, “We had better think about what your next wish will be.”
They conferred. The Durmstrang lads gathered around them and put in their ideas. Quietly they murmured together, with an occasional outburst from someone saying, “But the goblins will have made sure...” or, “That could have more than one meaning!” Unconcerned, the genie struggled with the bottle, finding that if he tipped it over too far, he got drenched in wine; but if he didn’t tip it far enough, nothing would come out. He was starting to think wistfully about the advantages of being able to fit inside the bottle, when the circle of wizards broke up and Don Pagliai knelt down to face the little genie.
“It’s like this,” said the fat clown wizard. “That all nine of us should be in a place from which we can make a safe and speedy escape from Gringotts Bank – that is our wish.”
“Not tha’ you were simply out of ’ere?” the genie said, surprised.
“Too many possible ways that could end up being worse than this,” Pagliai said sadly.
The genie shook his head. “Wizards today,” he complained. “Too clever by ’alf. Takes all the fun out of doin’ this job.”
“Just grant the wish,” Merlin snarled.
“Well, la-di-dah,” said the genie, and the vault went dark.
Dark, that is, until Merlin located his once-used, homemade wand and lit its tip. More water than light came out of it, as usual. After a few minutes their eyes had adjusted to this dim, damp light, and they counted heads and saw that everyone was there. Then they recognized their surroundings. It was a vast, cave-like chamber. Seven passages branched off from the wall ahead of them.
Once again, they were in the Pit.
Merlin swore loudly. Then he said, “We’ve been had!”
+++ DOUBLE CHALLENGE FOR TMQ #79 +++
To send Robbie your personal feedback or original ideas, visit the Feedback Form. To vote in the Survey and Contest to determine what happens in the Chapter-After-Next, visit the Discussion Forum. [EDIT: These are old instructions. You can use Comments to respond to this blog.]
The SURVEY: Will Rigel get restored to his correct age? Or will he have to grow up all over again, with Merlin as his guardian?
The CONTEST: Give the title and a brief explanation of an original BOOK that might be found in the Hogwarts library.
The Survey Answer that gets the most votes in the forum, and the Contest entry that Robbie likes the most, will be featured in Magic Quill #79. So be sure to visit our Discussion Thread, and don’t just lurk – please participate!
[Originally posted 1/13/06]
75. Mammali Enemectus
Contest Winner: Echoreyn
Three Italian clowns, four Durmstrang runaways, a wizard-of-fortune, and a toddler squirmed in Il Comte’s luxurious armchairs, but could not stand up. The magically prepared food, rich in abundance and variety, nevertheless sickened them. For years they’d had nothing but the same sort of fare off a magic table cloth, deep in the labyrinthine vaults of Gringotts Wizarding Bank. Now, it was being forced down their throats again, literally. For when Il Comte saw that they were refusing to eat, he waved his hand and the food began to levitate toward their mouths, one morsel at a time.
“Talk or eat,” Il Comte said tauntingly, as a buttery wedge of potato mashed itself against Merlin’s clenched teeth. He tried to open just a corner of his mouth to make a reply, but the potato squeezed in and he was forced either to chew or to choke. Looking around the table, he saw the other men struggling as veal cutlet, vegetable, and spoonfuls of soup forced themselves on them. Food dripped down their faces and robes. Then, a glass of wine lifted itself off the table and began tilitng itself toward the mouth of young Rigel, who reached toward it eagerly.
“No!” Merlin screamed. “Leave him alone!”
“At last, a talker,” Il Comte replied. He held up his hand, politely refusing a dinner roll that was offering itself to him. At the same moment, the food stopped moving about, though some bits of dinner continued to hover before the captives in a threatening way. “Go on, then,” Il Comte said. “How does one say it? Ah, yes—spill the beans!”
So Merlin explained all that had happened to them during their long imprisonment in the goblins’ bank. Il Comte was such an intent listener that he did not seem to notice when Rigel slipped out of Merlin’s lap and waddled off by himself. In fact, from the look in his hard eyes, Il Comte seemed to be plotting every detail of Merlin’s story into some mental map of the, alas, unplottable bank. Ombra, the house-elf, stood dutifully beside his master’s chair, but looked nervous.
Merlin kept talking, Il Comte kept listening, and Ombra kept looking dutiful and nervous even when something went crash at the other end of the vast hall. The clowns exchanged worried glances. A few minutes later, while Merlin was describing an encounter with the goblin Nailspike, everyone but Il Comte was startled by the raucous cry of a bird. Behind Il Comte’s back, Merlin glimpsed Rigel trotting happily across the space between two columns, chasing an enormous, electric-blue raven that flew just out of reach of his upstretched hands. Merlin paused in his tale, but a sliver of roast pork darted toward his face and he was forced to resume speaking.
A few minutes later, Merlin almost lost the thread of his story when he saw Rigel tiptoe up on Il Comte’s right flank, the side opposite Ombra. But again, Merlin was prompted to carry on by that bit of hovering pork roast. Meanwhile, Rigel reached toward Il Comte’s pocket with a sly look on his face. Ombra’s ears flattened against his head, but he held his peace. Il Comte had the look of a man who would not be disturbed at any cost, so the house-elf did nothing. One of the Durmstrang lads stifled a giggle.
Somewhere between the Breath-Ants and the Dragon’s Lair, Merlin lost himself in his own story and noticed nothing else that Rigel did. He poured his tale toward Il Comte, who greedily drank it up with attentive ears and intent eyes. But then, as the story came round to the part about the Tunnel of Boggarts, Merlin felt something gently pushed into his hand, which lay on his lap under the table. Without missing a beat in his narrative, Merlin observed that the “something” felt like a wand.
Shortly thereafter, Rigel decided that the time had come for him to be the center of attention. With a yodeling yell, he plunged out from behind a pair of heavy drapes, swung through the branches of a potted tree (which nearly broke under his weight), ran twice around the entire table, and then clambered up onto Don Pagliai’s lap and, from there, onto the table itself. He continued hallo-ing all the way along the table, while capering like an ape and upsetting most of the dishes. Ombra looked like he was choking with outrage, but Merlin gamely went on with his story and Il Comte never stirred.
Never, that is, until Rigel kicked a tureen of mashed turnip toward him. The turnip splattered against the front of Il Comte’s robes. At this, Il Comte looked up at Rigel with a benignly weary expression, and Merlin’s voice trailed off.
“My dear infant,” Il Comte said lightly, though Rigel suddenly cowered before him. “If you must behave like a chipmunk, you could at least have the good taste to look like one as well. Here, let me help you.” He plunged his hand into his pocket, then froze. Somehow, without seeming to shift a muscle, the Il Comte’s benignly weary face was transformed into murderous fury. For a moment he said and did nothing, perhaps because he did not want to say what was missing from his pocket and thereby inform his enemies that they had an advantage over him. But Merlin already knew, and he took advantage of Il Comte’s momentary indecision.
Standing so quickly that his chair tipped backwards, Merlin pointed Il Comte’s own wand at him.
Ombra discreetly edged away from his master, eyeing the ceiling with interest.
“One mustn’t point a wand at someone unless one intends to use it,” Il Comte said in a soft, level voice. “What do you intend to do?”
“I intend to show you what a chipmunk looks like,” said Merlin. Then, waving his wand toward the table, he muttered, “Mammali enemectus!”
In the blink of an eye, all the overturned dishes and scattered gobbets of food vanished, and in their place crouched a multitude of plump, furry chipmunks. In one accord, the chipmunks looked up at Merlin with identical, questioning looks in their beady eyes. Merlin nodded toward Il Comte, who had already crossed his arms over his face. The next moment, all the chipmunks rushed off Il Comte’s end of the able, attacking every inch of him from his trouser cuffs to the top of his head. Screeching, scratching, and savagely biting, the little creatures covered Il Comte completely.
“Don’t just sit there,” Merlin screamed at the shocked clowns and runaways. “Run!”
“I’ll never forget this!” howled Il Comte, in a voice muffled by his own robes and the bodies of a hundred attacking chipmunks. But Merlin was the only one who heard this, as he scooped up Rigel and followed the others, at a flat run, out of the sun-splashed hall.
+++ THIS WEEK’S DOUBLE CHALLENGE! +++
To send general comments to Robbie, you can still use the Feedback Form [EDIT: Rather, leave a Comment]. But to be a part of the magic of writing The Magic Quill, go to the COS Forums and discuss this week’s Survey and Contest! [EDIT: This discussion is closed.]
Your votes will determine the winning answer to the Survey. Robbie will pick the winner of the Contest. The winning answers will be used in The Magic Quill two weeks from now. Click here to respond by 11:59 PM Greenwich on Friday, 30 December 2005.
*** THE SURVEY ***
Sadly, Merlin and his friends still have some years left on their seven-year sentence in Gringotts. (See TMQ #33.) So they must soon leave the warm, Italian sunshine of Il Comte’s palace, and return to the dark tunnels of the goblin bank. When they go back, what part of the bank should they visit first?
*** THE CONTEST ***
Describe an original POTION. What is it called, and what does it do?
[Originally posted 12/23/05]
Three Italian clowns, four Durmstrang runaways, a wizard-of-fortune, and a toddler squirmed in Il Comte’s luxurious armchairs, but could not stand up. The magically prepared food, rich in abundance and variety, nevertheless sickened them. For years they’d had nothing but the same sort of fare off a magic table cloth, deep in the labyrinthine vaults of Gringotts Wizarding Bank. Now, it was being forced down their throats again, literally. For when Il Comte saw that they were refusing to eat, he waved his hand and the food began to levitate toward their mouths, one morsel at a time.
“Talk or eat,” Il Comte said tauntingly, as a buttery wedge of potato mashed itself against Merlin’s clenched teeth. He tried to open just a corner of his mouth to make a reply, but the potato squeezed in and he was forced either to chew or to choke. Looking around the table, he saw the other men struggling as veal cutlet, vegetable, and spoonfuls of soup forced themselves on them. Food dripped down their faces and robes. Then, a glass of wine lifted itself off the table and began tilitng itself toward the mouth of young Rigel, who reached toward it eagerly.
“No!” Merlin screamed. “Leave him alone!”
“At last, a talker,” Il Comte replied. He held up his hand, politely refusing a dinner roll that was offering itself to him. At the same moment, the food stopped moving about, though some bits of dinner continued to hover before the captives in a threatening way. “Go on, then,” Il Comte said. “How does one say it? Ah, yes—spill the beans!”
So Merlin explained all that had happened to them during their long imprisonment in the goblins’ bank. Il Comte was such an intent listener that he did not seem to notice when Rigel slipped out of Merlin’s lap and waddled off by himself. In fact, from the look in his hard eyes, Il Comte seemed to be plotting every detail of Merlin’s story into some mental map of the, alas, unplottable bank. Ombra, the house-elf, stood dutifully beside his master’s chair, but looked nervous.
Merlin kept talking, Il Comte kept listening, and Ombra kept looking dutiful and nervous even when something went crash at the other end of the vast hall. The clowns exchanged worried glances. A few minutes later, while Merlin was describing an encounter with the goblin Nailspike, everyone but Il Comte was startled by the raucous cry of a bird. Behind Il Comte’s back, Merlin glimpsed Rigel trotting happily across the space between two columns, chasing an enormous, electric-blue raven that flew just out of reach of his upstretched hands. Merlin paused in his tale, but a sliver of roast pork darted toward his face and he was forced to resume speaking.
A few minutes later, Merlin almost lost the thread of his story when he saw Rigel tiptoe up on Il Comte’s right flank, the side opposite Ombra. But again, Merlin was prompted to carry on by that bit of hovering pork roast. Meanwhile, Rigel reached toward Il Comte’s pocket with a sly look on his face. Ombra’s ears flattened against his head, but he held his peace. Il Comte had the look of a man who would not be disturbed at any cost, so the house-elf did nothing. One of the Durmstrang lads stifled a giggle.
Somewhere between the Breath-Ants and the Dragon’s Lair, Merlin lost himself in his own story and noticed nothing else that Rigel did. He poured his tale toward Il Comte, who greedily drank it up with attentive ears and intent eyes. But then, as the story came round to the part about the Tunnel of Boggarts, Merlin felt something gently pushed into his hand, which lay on his lap under the table. Without missing a beat in his narrative, Merlin observed that the “something” felt like a wand.
Shortly thereafter, Rigel decided that the time had come for him to be the center of attention. With a yodeling yell, he plunged out from behind a pair of heavy drapes, swung through the branches of a potted tree (which nearly broke under his weight), ran twice around the entire table, and then clambered up onto Don Pagliai’s lap and, from there, onto the table itself. He continued hallo-ing all the way along the table, while capering like an ape and upsetting most of the dishes. Ombra looked like he was choking with outrage, but Merlin gamely went on with his story and Il Comte never stirred.
Never, that is, until Rigel kicked a tureen of mashed turnip toward him. The turnip splattered against the front of Il Comte’s robes. At this, Il Comte looked up at Rigel with a benignly weary expression, and Merlin’s voice trailed off.
“My dear infant,” Il Comte said lightly, though Rigel suddenly cowered before him. “If you must behave like a chipmunk, you could at least have the good taste to look like one as well. Here, let me help you.” He plunged his hand into his pocket, then froze. Somehow, without seeming to shift a muscle, the Il Comte’s benignly weary face was transformed into murderous fury. For a moment he said and did nothing, perhaps because he did not want to say what was missing from his pocket and thereby inform his enemies that they had an advantage over him. But Merlin already knew, and he took advantage of Il Comte’s momentary indecision.
Standing so quickly that his chair tipped backwards, Merlin pointed Il Comte’s own wand at him.
Ombra discreetly edged away from his master, eyeing the ceiling with interest.
“One mustn’t point a wand at someone unless one intends to use it,” Il Comte said in a soft, level voice. “What do you intend to do?”
“I intend to show you what a chipmunk looks like,” said Merlin. Then, waving his wand toward the table, he muttered, “Mammali enemectus!”
In the blink of an eye, all the overturned dishes and scattered gobbets of food vanished, and in their place crouched a multitude of plump, furry chipmunks. In one accord, the chipmunks looked up at Merlin with identical, questioning looks in their beady eyes. Merlin nodded toward Il Comte, who had already crossed his arms over his face. The next moment, all the chipmunks rushed off Il Comte’s end of the able, attacking every inch of him from his trouser cuffs to the top of his head. Screeching, scratching, and savagely biting, the little creatures covered Il Comte completely.
“Don’t just sit there,” Merlin screamed at the shocked clowns and runaways. “Run!”
“I’ll never forget this!” howled Il Comte, in a voice muffled by his own robes and the bodies of a hundred attacking chipmunks. But Merlin was the only one who heard this, as he scooped up Rigel and followed the others, at a flat run, out of the sun-splashed hall.
+++ THIS WEEK’S DOUBLE CHALLENGE! +++
To send general comments to Robbie, you can still use the Feedback Form [EDIT: Rather, leave a Comment]. But to be a part of the magic of writing The Magic Quill, go to the COS Forums and discuss this week’s Survey and Contest! [EDIT: This discussion is closed.]
Your votes will determine the winning answer to the Survey. Robbie will pick the winner of the Contest. The winning answers will be used in The Magic Quill two weeks from now. Click here to respond by 11:59 PM Greenwich on Friday, 30 December 2005.
*** THE SURVEY ***
Sadly, Merlin and his friends still have some years left on their seven-year sentence in Gringotts. (See TMQ #33.) So they must soon leave the warm, Italian sunshine of Il Comte’s palace, and return to the dark tunnels of the goblin bank. When they go back, what part of the bank should they visit first?
*** THE CONTEST ***
Describe an original POTION. What is it called, and what does it do?
[Originally posted 12/23/05]
74. Il Comte di Bestemmia
After the goblins sealed Merlin and his party in the vault of Il Comte, once again, he gave up hope of ever escaping. Their attempts so far had led nowhere, and the flaws in Gringotts security they had found were now repaired. Four years had skipped by, thanks to the few drops of Tomorrow Tonic that had splashed on them. So, he began the painful task of accepting reality: namely, the reality that he would most likely never see the outside of Il Comte’s vault again.
Ironically, deliverance was at hand for all of them: for Merlin; for Rigel (though he had been turned into a one-year-old child); for the four runaways from Durmstrang who had accompanied them on many of their adventures; and for the three Italian clown wizards who had been drinking their way through Il Comte’s wine cellar in search of the one bottle that contained a genie.
It was Jaan who first remembered that Rigel’s wand—hornbeam, with an augurey tail-feather core, eleven inches, bendy—was still in the robes he had been wearing when he changed from a grown man into a tiny child.
Of course, when he remembered this and explained it to Slavik, Slavik’s mind immediately jumped to the pocket universe storage locker that was also in Rigel’s robes. This contained a portable hole, a silken ladder, and various other magical goodies that would surely help them all get out of the vault...
But when they searched Rigel’s robes, the wizards’ excitement and hopefulness turned again to bitter despair. No one could find a pocket universe storage locker. It seemed that it only presented itself to Rigel’s fingers—and Rigel was now at an age where he could hardly understand what a pocket universe storage locker was, let alone attempt to use it.
So once again it came down to that last, unused wand. Jaan held it up triumphantly and asked a question in his own language. Slavik translated, “We get one spell with this wand. What shall it be?”
“Accio genie!” said Don Pagliai and Signor Subito at the same time. In his excitement, the maudlin mime named Signor Boccachiusa began skipping around the room, laughing soundlessly.
“You’d best take shelter,” Merlin warned, before Jaan executed the spell.
A cork shot out of a champagne bottle, deep among the rows of wine-racks into which the clowns had been making steady inroads. At once, Don Pagliai uttered a stream of oaths in Italian, followed by the words, “Of course! How diabolically clever. We never seemed to be in the mood for champagne!”
Instead of bubbles, the open bottle gushed forth copious amounts of glittery vapor that gathered on the floor and soon filled the whole vault to a depth of about two feet. Then, with an even louder POP, the genie emerged. It looked like a huge gilded man, whose girth crushed several racks of wine bottles, and whose height forced him to double over with his back wedged against the ceiling. The wizards were forced back into a corner opposite the vault door. Now, unless they could get what they wanted out of this genie, they were truly trapped forever.
The first thing the genie said was, “Blimey! That’s more like it!” And he spent the next few minutes groaning, stretching, and flexing his flabby limbs. “I can’t tell you what a relief it is to be out of that bottle. Can anyone spare a drop of drink? I’m fairly parched, that I am.”
Nervously, Anatoly handed over his goblet of wine, which barely wet the genie’s palate. Still, by the time he had swallowed it, the genie seemed a bit less crowded between the floor and ceiling. Slavik, Karl, and Subito offered their own cups, which the genie gratefully drank, smacking his lips. Soon he was able to stand with only his head bowed beneath the ceiling. Then he belched, and thanked everyone for their kindness, and asked for directions to the loo.
“Wait a moment,” said Don Pagliai. “Haven’t you forgotten to give us our wishes?”
“Oh, bother the wishes,” said the genie. “Can’t a body enjoy his first moments of freedom without being nagged for the bloody wishes? I tell you, a genie’s life is hard. It’s all business, business, business—except for a thousand years wedged inside a bottle, now and then. It’s enough to drive a body to drink!”
“I sympathize, truly,” said Don Pagliai, looking as angelic as a purple-haired fat man in a clown costume can. “But just think about it. If you grant us just one wish, you can have this whole vault full of fine wine all to yourself—and if you happen to fall into a bottle, there won’t be anyone around to stick the cork in.”
The genie scratched his thin thoughtfully.
“We’ll throw in a magic picnic blanket that never runs out of food,” Merlin added.
“We have a deal,” the genie said, snapping his fingers. “What’s your wish, then? Let’s get this over with.”
“That’s our sentiment exactly,” said Pagliai. “That you would send me home with all these friends of mine—that is my wish.”
So much for Merlin’s attempts to stop Pagliai from stating his wish so quickly and carelessly. He was still making “stop” gestures at the fat clown when the dank vault vanished and he found himself, with all his companions, standing in an enormous hall. Bright sunlight poured in through windows high in the walls, illuminating portraits and statues and tapestries. Fluted columns, a ribbed ceiling, and a shimmering expanse of tiled floor surrounded him, making him feel very small. In every direction he could see large trees in planting pots, singing birds in cages, richly woven rugs, and expensive vases full of flowers. And in the center of the room, a devilishly handsome man of some forty-five years lounged on a fainting couch, gazing into a hand-held mirror, attended by a house-elf bearing a tray laden with sections of fruit and cheese.
The house-elf saw them first, but said nothing. Its eyes narrowed, and its tall ears flattened against its head, but that was its only reaction to the appearance of eight men and a baby in the middle of the great hall.
“Ah, me. Dear me. Dear me!” the man sighed, still fascinated by what he saw in his mirror. The silk ascot around his throat bobbed up and down with emotion. “Have I ever mentioned, Ombra, how deeply I care for myself?”
“Si, signore,” the house-elf said. “But signore...”
“I have never met anyone so remarkable as me,” Signore went on heedlessly. “I am simply superb. My equal in elegance, in power, and in worthiness to lead cannot be named. Literally! But enough about him. It is myself with whom I am concerned.” The ascot bobbed again. “You see? Whenever I think of myself, I get choked up. There is nothing that I wouldn’t do for me—nothing!—no matter how difficult—no matter how painful—no matter how wicked...”
Overcome with emotion, the Signore buried his face in the folds of his rich, velvety robe.
The house-elf took this opportunity to introduce the guests, who were just now trying to sneak behind the Signore with Don Pagliai in the lead.
“Signore Maledicto,” squeaked Ombra. “The clowns have returned, and they have brought company.”
“Indeed?” Maledicto looked around and brightened at the sight of his long-absent clown servants. “Pagliai! Subito! Boccachiusa! How I have missed you! And who are these others? Apprentices, perhaps?”
“With your leave, we will depart from this house,” Don Pagliai said bravely, and then added, “Signore.”
“What!” cried Signore Maledicto. “And fail to partake of the largesse of Il Comte Maledicto di Bestemmia? By no means!”
With a snap of his fingers, Il Comte’s fainting couch and mirror vanished, replaced by a table covered with rich wine and food. Clowns, runaway Durmstrang boys, and Merlin alike shuddered at the sight. They had no wish for another morsel of Il Comte’s hospitality.
“No,” Don Pagliai said simply—though by the sound of his voice, it was the only sound he could get out without gagging.
“But I insist!” said Il Comte, and he snapped his fingers again. The other wizards felt themselves forced down into deep, cushiony chairs, from which they could not rise. Laughing cruelly, Il Comte seated himself at the head of the table, with Ombra standing at his elbow. “I am so eager to know what you and your friends have learned, Pagliai. I swear that the wine will not stop pouring, and good things will continue to be served to you, as long as you talk. Now: what did you find in Gringotts? Eh?”
Rigel, pinned to Merlin’s lap, wriggled and whined. For once, Merlin knew exactly how he felt.
+++ THIS WEEK’S DOUBLE CHALLENGE! +++
To send general comments to Robbie, you can still use the Feedback Form [EDIT: Rather, leave a Comment]. But to be a part of the magic of writing The Magic Quill, go to the COS Forums and discuss this week’s Survey and Contest [EDIT: This discussion is closed]. Your votes will (hopefully) determine the winning answer to the Survey. Robbie will pick the winner of the Contest. The winning answers will be used in The Magic Quill two weeks down the line. Click here to respond by 11:59 PM Greenwich on Friday, 23 December 2005..
*** THE SURVEY ***
What location should be the setting of TMQ No. 76?
*** THE CONTEST ***
Describe an original, magical OBJECT. What does it look like, and what are its powers?
[Originally posted 12/16/05]
Ironically, deliverance was at hand for all of them: for Merlin; for Rigel (though he had been turned into a one-year-old child); for the four runaways from Durmstrang who had accompanied them on many of their adventures; and for the three Italian clown wizards who had been drinking their way through Il Comte’s wine cellar in search of the one bottle that contained a genie.
It was Jaan who first remembered that Rigel’s wand—hornbeam, with an augurey tail-feather core, eleven inches, bendy—was still in the robes he had been wearing when he changed from a grown man into a tiny child.
Of course, when he remembered this and explained it to Slavik, Slavik’s mind immediately jumped to the pocket universe storage locker that was also in Rigel’s robes. This contained a portable hole, a silken ladder, and various other magical goodies that would surely help them all get out of the vault...
But when they searched Rigel’s robes, the wizards’ excitement and hopefulness turned again to bitter despair. No one could find a pocket universe storage locker. It seemed that it only presented itself to Rigel’s fingers—and Rigel was now at an age where he could hardly understand what a pocket universe storage locker was, let alone attempt to use it.
So once again it came down to that last, unused wand. Jaan held it up triumphantly and asked a question in his own language. Slavik translated, “We get one spell with this wand. What shall it be?”
“Accio genie!” said Don Pagliai and Signor Subito at the same time. In his excitement, the maudlin mime named Signor Boccachiusa began skipping around the room, laughing soundlessly.
“You’d best take shelter,” Merlin warned, before Jaan executed the spell.
A cork shot out of a champagne bottle, deep among the rows of wine-racks into which the clowns had been making steady inroads. At once, Don Pagliai uttered a stream of oaths in Italian, followed by the words, “Of course! How diabolically clever. We never seemed to be in the mood for champagne!”
Instead of bubbles, the open bottle gushed forth copious amounts of glittery vapor that gathered on the floor and soon filled the whole vault to a depth of about two feet. Then, with an even louder POP, the genie emerged. It looked like a huge gilded man, whose girth crushed several racks of wine bottles, and whose height forced him to double over with his back wedged against the ceiling. The wizards were forced back into a corner opposite the vault door. Now, unless they could get what they wanted out of this genie, they were truly trapped forever.
The first thing the genie said was, “Blimey! That’s more like it!” And he spent the next few minutes groaning, stretching, and flexing his flabby limbs. “I can’t tell you what a relief it is to be out of that bottle. Can anyone spare a drop of drink? I’m fairly parched, that I am.”
Nervously, Anatoly handed over his goblet of wine, which barely wet the genie’s palate. Still, by the time he had swallowed it, the genie seemed a bit less crowded between the floor and ceiling. Slavik, Karl, and Subito offered their own cups, which the genie gratefully drank, smacking his lips. Soon he was able to stand with only his head bowed beneath the ceiling. Then he belched, and thanked everyone for their kindness, and asked for directions to the loo.
“Wait a moment,” said Don Pagliai. “Haven’t you forgotten to give us our wishes?”
“Oh, bother the wishes,” said the genie. “Can’t a body enjoy his first moments of freedom without being nagged for the bloody wishes? I tell you, a genie’s life is hard. It’s all business, business, business—except for a thousand years wedged inside a bottle, now and then. It’s enough to drive a body to drink!”
“I sympathize, truly,” said Don Pagliai, looking as angelic as a purple-haired fat man in a clown costume can. “But just think about it. If you grant us just one wish, you can have this whole vault full of fine wine all to yourself—and if you happen to fall into a bottle, there won’t be anyone around to stick the cork in.”
The genie scratched his thin thoughtfully.
“We’ll throw in a magic picnic blanket that never runs out of food,” Merlin added.
“We have a deal,” the genie said, snapping his fingers. “What’s your wish, then? Let’s get this over with.”
“That’s our sentiment exactly,” said Pagliai. “That you would send me home with all these friends of mine—that is my wish.”
So much for Merlin’s attempts to stop Pagliai from stating his wish so quickly and carelessly. He was still making “stop” gestures at the fat clown when the dank vault vanished and he found himself, with all his companions, standing in an enormous hall. Bright sunlight poured in through windows high in the walls, illuminating portraits and statues and tapestries. Fluted columns, a ribbed ceiling, and a shimmering expanse of tiled floor surrounded him, making him feel very small. In every direction he could see large trees in planting pots, singing birds in cages, richly woven rugs, and expensive vases full of flowers. And in the center of the room, a devilishly handsome man of some forty-five years lounged on a fainting couch, gazing into a hand-held mirror, attended by a house-elf bearing a tray laden with sections of fruit and cheese.
The house-elf saw them first, but said nothing. Its eyes narrowed, and its tall ears flattened against its head, but that was its only reaction to the appearance of eight men and a baby in the middle of the great hall.
“Ah, me. Dear me. Dear me!” the man sighed, still fascinated by what he saw in his mirror. The silk ascot around his throat bobbed up and down with emotion. “Have I ever mentioned, Ombra, how deeply I care for myself?”
“Si, signore,” the house-elf said. “But signore...”
“I have never met anyone so remarkable as me,” Signore went on heedlessly. “I am simply superb. My equal in elegance, in power, and in worthiness to lead cannot be named. Literally! But enough about him. It is myself with whom I am concerned.” The ascot bobbed again. “You see? Whenever I think of myself, I get choked up. There is nothing that I wouldn’t do for me—nothing!—no matter how difficult—no matter how painful—no matter how wicked...”
Overcome with emotion, the Signore buried his face in the folds of his rich, velvety robe.
The house-elf took this opportunity to introduce the guests, who were just now trying to sneak behind the Signore with Don Pagliai in the lead.
“Signore Maledicto,” squeaked Ombra. “The clowns have returned, and they have brought company.”
“Indeed?” Maledicto looked around and brightened at the sight of his long-absent clown servants. “Pagliai! Subito! Boccachiusa! How I have missed you! And who are these others? Apprentices, perhaps?”
“With your leave, we will depart from this house,” Don Pagliai said bravely, and then added, “Signore.”
“What!” cried Signore Maledicto. “And fail to partake of the largesse of Il Comte Maledicto di Bestemmia? By no means!”
With a snap of his fingers, Il Comte’s fainting couch and mirror vanished, replaced by a table covered with rich wine and food. Clowns, runaway Durmstrang boys, and Merlin alike shuddered at the sight. They had no wish for another morsel of Il Comte’s hospitality.
“No,” Don Pagliai said simply—though by the sound of his voice, it was the only sound he could get out without gagging.
“But I insist!” said Il Comte, and he snapped his fingers again. The other wizards felt themselves forced down into deep, cushiony chairs, from which they could not rise. Laughing cruelly, Il Comte seated himself at the head of the table, with Ombra standing at his elbow. “I am so eager to know what you and your friends have learned, Pagliai. I swear that the wine will not stop pouring, and good things will continue to be served to you, as long as you talk. Now: what did you find in Gringotts? Eh?”
Rigel, pinned to Merlin’s lap, wriggled and whined. For once, Merlin knew exactly how he felt.
+++ THIS WEEK’S DOUBLE CHALLENGE! +++
To send general comments to Robbie, you can still use the Feedback Form [EDIT: Rather, leave a Comment]. But to be a part of the magic of writing The Magic Quill, go to the COS Forums and discuss this week’s Survey and Contest [EDIT: This discussion is closed]. Your votes will (hopefully) determine the winning answer to the Survey. Robbie will pick the winner of the Contest. The winning answers will be used in The Magic Quill two weeks down the line. Click here to respond by 11:59 PM Greenwich on Friday, 23 December 2005..
*** THE SURVEY ***
What location should be the setting of TMQ No. 76?
*** THE CONTEST ***
Describe an original, magical OBJECT. What does it look like, and what are its powers?
[Originally posted 12/16/05]
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