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have to make the magic fit the subject. Doen look like you doing that,
Jon-Tom.
Was he going about it all wrong? But all he knew how to do was
spellsing. He couldn t use potions and powders like Clothahump. What was it
the wizard was always telling him?  Always keep in mind that magic is a matter
of specificity.
Specifics. Instead of trying to adapt old songs to fit the
situation, perhaps he should improvise new ones. He d done that before. But
what kind of lyrics would give such demons as these pause?
Fight fire with fire. Clothahump hadn t said that, but somebody
had.
He considered carefully. A gleam appeared in his eyes. His hand
swept down once more over the suar. Take equal parts Dire Straits, Ratt, X and
Eurythmics. Mix Adam Smith with Adam Ant. Add readings from The Economist and
Martin Greenspan. Mix well and you have one savage synoptic song.
Heavy metal economics.
Instead of singing of love and death, of peace and learning and
compassion, Jon-Tom began to blast out raw-edged stanzas full of free trade,
reduced tariffs, and an international standard of taxation based on ecus
instead of the dollar.
It staggered the demons. They tried to fight back with talk of
protectionism and deficit financing, but they were no match for Jon-Tom
musically. He struck hard with a rhythmic little ditty proposing a simplified
income tax and no deductions that sent half of them scurrying for shelter,
moaning and covering their ears.
Those remaining countered with an accusation about an unqualified
deduction retroactive to the first date of filing, a vicious low blow that
cracked the front of the suar and nearly knocked him off his feet. He recouped
the ground briefly lost and more with the ballad of unlimited textile imports
and suggestions for a free market in autos. When he slammed them with a flat
tax tune it was more than the strongest among them could bear. They began to
vanish, holding their briefcases defensively in front of them, dissolving in a
refulgent gray cloud of letters and incomprehensible forms.
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Still he sang of banking and barter, of one page returns and other
miracles, until the last of the cloud had dissipated. When he finally stopped
it was as if the air in the room had been scoured clear of infection, every
molecule handwashed and hung out to dry. He was hoarse and exhausted.
But Couvier Coulb was standing tall and straight by the side of
his bed, assuring his sobbing housekeeper that if not completely cured he was
surely on the way to total recovery.
At which point a fuzzy head popped into view atop the stairwell
and declared at this solemn and joyful moment,  Damn, I thought I were goin
to piss for a week!
 As always, your timing never ceases to amaze me. Jon-Tom had to
struggle to form the words. His voice was a breathy rasping.
Mudge glanced rapidly around the bedchamber.  Timin ? Wot timin ?
Now where are these  ere demons everyone s so worried about? I m ready for
 em, I am. Big demons, little demons, let me at  em. He stode briskly into
the room.
To her immense credit and Jon-Tom s everlasting appreciation
Weegee booted the otter right in the rear.
As the two of them quarreled, Couvier Coulb led the rest of his
guests downstairs.  Come, my friend. Amalm, I am sure our guests must be
hungry. He put an affectionate arm and his prehensile tail around Jon-Tom s
waist, which was as high as he could comfortably reach.  And I know this young
man must be thirsty. I am going to fix your duar, Jon-Tom. Have no fear of
that. If it is at all possible I will do it. He winked.  I may even do it if
it is impossible. But first we must rest. You are tired from battling demons
and I from a long illness. You must talk of your travels in distant lands and
of the world you come from, and I would know more of this Clothahump who knew
to send you to me.
 That s easy. Mudge and Weegee had rejoined them, Mudge still
rubbing his backside.   E s a senile old faker with a  ead as  ard as  is
shell.
By nightfall Coulb had recovered much of his strength and led his
guests into his workshop. The house was already perking up, having set aside
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its month-long funeral dirge in favor of some sprightly, cheerful tunes that
would have done well on Broadway. It had a rejuvenating effect on Coulb and
Jon-Tom. Mudge thought it spooky.
The kinkajou carefully laid out the shattered components of the
duar on his workbench, a glistening long table made of pure white hardwood.
When the last piece had been set down he turned the carrying sack inside out
to check for dust and splinters. These were collected, placed in ajar, and
added to the display. As he donned a pair of extra-thick work glasses Jon-Tom
took a moment to examine the workshop.
Musical instruments in different stages of repair lay on other
benches or hung from the walls. The air was thick with the rich smells of oil
and varnish. Some of the tools meticulously arranged in boxes next to the
workbench looked fine enough to do double duty in a surgery.
Coulb was muttering aloud.  Align these here, replace some wood
there; that seam can be fixed, yes. He looked up, pushed the work glasses
back on his forehead.  I can repair it I think.
 You think?
The kinkajou rubbed at his eyes.  As I said before, this
instrument is unique. The most difficult part will be setting the strings. It
is hard to achieve perfect pitch in two dimensions at once. He gestured
toward the bench.  All the strings are there? Jon-Tom nodded.  Good. I ve
never seen strings like these and I d hate to have to try to replace them.
Fortunately they are metal. But I will need help setting them properly.
Jon-Tom looked around the shop.  An apprentice? Coulb just
smiled.
Oil lamps, each in the shape of a different instrument, lined the
walls. It was pitch dark outside. They were full of Amalm s good cooking.
Jon-Tom sensed he was in the presence of another master magician. What else
could you call someone who took wood and glue and gut and created from such
disparate elements the essence of music? [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]