that the bush was continuing to expand. It was
almost up to the roof. When it hit the ceiling, the
branches began to spread out sideways, throwing out
shoots and blossoms in every direction.
"No sweat. I'll just sing the final chorus. That
ought to finish it." He proceeded to do so, the words
falling gentle and sweet on the now heavily aromatic
air of the bedroom.
It had absolutely no effect on the fecund rose-
bush, which continued to spread out across the walls.
Having covered ceiling and sides, branches began to
40 Alan Dean Foster
fill the room, crisscrossing and occasionally running
into one another. Some of the stems were now as
thick as birch trunks. The room was shaking.
"That's enough, boy!" Clothahump was hemmed
in against the headboard of his bed. Jon-Tom was
trying to edge his way toward the near doorway, had
to duck as two sapling-thick branches boasting three-
inch-long thorns tried to block his exit.
"I... I don't understand. I'm not singing any-
more."
"You bet your ass you're not, lad." Clothahump
struggled with one drawer in his plastron, finally
yanked it open. "Got to lubricate these one of these
days." The drawer finally popped open and he rum-
maged around inside himself. "Hope I can stop it
before..."
"Before what?" wondered the thoroughly distraught
Jon-Tom as he stumbled back from an encroaching
branch. It vomited a three-foot-wide blossom in his
face, and the burst of perfume made him dizzy.
"Before these damned things start growing out of
us," Clothahump shouted at him.
His path to the door blocked, Jon-Tom scrambled
across the floor toward the only remaining open
section of the room . -. Clothahump's bed.
"Maybe I overdid it a little bit"
"My boy, your powers of observation and your
innate ability to intuit the blatantly obvious never
cease to amaze me. Ah, there!" He removed a small
box from his plastron, shoved the drawer shut, and
opened the box. From within he selected a pinch of
white powder and leaned forward.
"Roots and shoots and cellulose
Blossoms that be profane
Dwell in lands of malathane
THB MOMENT OF TSW MAGICIAN 47
Make thy xylum comatose
Dry up thy tannic staint"
He threw the powder into the advancing thorns. It
evaporated. The cluster of branches seemed to
shudder, to slow... and finally, to petrify.
They were surrounded, engulfed by beauty. Jon-
Tom felt sure he was going to throw up.
He took a step toward the door which led into
Clothahump's laboratory, found he couldn't move
more than a few inches off the cushions before
swordlike thorns pricked his legs. He retreated back
onto the bed.
"Sorry," he whispered morosely. The smell of roses
was overwhelming.
Clothahump sighed, gave him a fatherly pat on the
back. 'That's all right, tad. We're all a little overconfi-
dent now and again. You were right about one thing,
though. If your ladylove were here, I've no doubt she'd
be impressed with this little floral tribute of yours... if
she wasn't cut to ribbons first. I will say this for your
spellsinging: you don't seem able to do anything in a
small way" At least a thousand blossoms of all shades
and hues kept them imprisoned on the bed.
"There's nothing basically the matter with your
spellsinging, my boy. But you are going to have to
work at moderating your enthusiasm a bit." He eyed
his bedroom appraisingly. "An impressive, though
difficult to deliver, bouquet."
Tucking his head down inside his shell until only
the crown was visible, he slid off the bed and waded
out into the brambles, quite safe from the thorns.
They couldn't penetrate his body armor, but neither
did he have the strength to force a path through
them. Finally he gave up and returned to the bed.
"It's no good, lad. I'm neither as young nor agile
as I once was."
Alan Dean Foster
48
"How about a spell?"
Clothahump's reply to that suggestion was tart.
"You spelled this jungle up: you unspell it."
Jon-Tom's fingers twisted against each other. "I
don't think I ought to try that."
Clothahump looked dazed. "What's that? What's
this? Some small hint of humility? How gratifying.
Today we pass another signpost on the road to
wisdom." A powerful, resonant voice interrupted his
sarcasm.
"THERE'S SOMEONE AT THE DOORI"
"Drat, that's the bell," the wizard groused. "Why
am 1 blessed with visitors who have such wonderful
timing?"
They waited patiently on the bed. Minutes later an
uncertain voice called to them from the vicinity of
the doorway.
"Uh, Master?" They could just make out the four-
foot-tall shape of Clothahump's apprentice standing
in the opening. For a wonder, Sorbl sounded almost
sober this morning. That was something of a magic
itself.
"There is someone at the door, Master."
"We know that, you idiot," said Clothahump with a
grimace. "We heard the bell too. Who is at the door?"
"He says he's come a long ways on a mission of
great importance. Master."
"Don't they all."
"His name is Pandro. He's a raven and he says he
comes from a city named Quasequa."
Suddenly Clothahump was more interested than
indifferent. "Quasequa, you say? Well, I have not
heard from anyone in that distant land in some time.
I recall mention of a young sorcerer of some promise,
a fellow name of Opiode, who was trying to set
himself up in business down there."
THE MOMENT OF TOE MAGICIAN
49
"That's who's sent him here, sir!" said Sorbl excitedly.
"This Pandro says it's most urgent."
"Opiode, yes, that was the name. Though I can't
be certain. My memory's not what it used to be. I'll
see him, though." The turtle's tone darkened. "You
> will not offer him any liquid refreshment stronger
than fruit juice!"
"Master, I? Do you think that I... ?"
"Yes, I do. Now, shut up, see him comfortably in,
and inform him I'll be along directly. Then go to the
storage bin outside the parlor. Inside you'll find
some large wood clippers. Bring them back here and
cut us out of my bedroom. Then, while we are
listening to this visitor's tale, you may take the re-
mainder of the day to prune around my bed."
The owl let out a resigned sigh. "As you direct,
Master." A brief pause, then, "Would it be improper
of me to ask what happened here?"
"Not at all. You should find it instructive. This
E minor botanical catastrophe sprang from the heart
of our young spellsinger here. He is in love, you see.
One would tend to say he has a green thumb. The
^ actual problem, however, lies with the protuberance
which arises from between his shoulders."
^ It was a mild enough reprimand and Jon-Tom
fought to accept it gracefully. Lest he do additional
damage, he forced himself to put all thoughts of
the beauteous Talea aside and concentrate instead on
*the potential import of whatever this far-ranging
truest might have to say.
|^ Clothahump's spell-sharpened shears soon cut a
11" tunnel to them through the tangled growth, and the
^ two of them were able to crawl to freedom.
iffl '
"^ "A good job," the wizard complimented his appren-
; .^- lice. "Now clean out the rest of it, but leave those
•^ pink blooms over there, the ones under the window.
Alan Dean Foster
00
They're rather attractive, and that part of the floor's