“Castles stink too; marble floors soak up odors. An’ I’ve met some pretty slovenly fairies.”
Trying to ignore him, Jon-Tom bent over and reached for the goblet. Thunder continued its querulous exhortations overhead, and a prickly dampness could be felt in the air. He touched the melted metal carefully. It was cool against his palm.
Removing it, he turned the barely recognizable lump over in his hands. Not just cool but ice-cold, despite the intense heat it had recently endured. And Mudge was right; there was a peculiar smell attending to the metal. He stuck a finger inside, rubbed it against the bottom of the curve. When he removed it, it was smeared with black and glittering sparkles. He held it to his nose and sniffed.
Mudge made a face. “Wot is it, guv’nor?”
“I’m not sure.” He eyed the sky again. “It smells and looks something like silver iodide. Where I come from, something similar is used for seeding clouds.”
The otter gave him a sideways look. “We seed the ground ‘ere, mate, not the clouds. You’re not makin’ any sense.”
But Jon-Tom knew better. He looked over to where the patiently waiting Clothahump stood motionless, still shading his eyes and inspecting the sky. You clever, sharp old codger you, he thought, and found that he was smiling.
Then something wondrous and magical began to happen, exactly as the wizard had indicated it should, and Jon-Tom found that he was not just smiling, he was laughing. Laughing, and feeling good enough to kick up his feet in a celebratory jig.
It began to rain.
The rumbling from the cloud had sounded querulous at first, then confused, but now it was booming and roaring with unperturbed assurance. He stood there with the rain pelting his upturned face, luxuriating in the clean, pure, undistorted moisture.
Well, maybe just a little distorted.
Mudge grabbed the goblet. “ ‘Ere now, let me ‘ave a sniff o’ that, you dancin’ ape. Something’s not right ‘ere.” He inhaled deeply. Then his eyes grew wide. “Bugger me for a wayward clergyman! That’s brandy, mate, and top-quality stuff too! Maybe there’s a drop or two left in the bottom to whet old Mudge’s whistle, wot?” He started to tilt the melted goblet to his lips.
Jon-Tom quickly snatched it back. “Whoa! Silver iodide’s a strong poison, Mudge. Or maybe it was silver chloride? No matter.” He sniffed himself, looked puzzled. “It’s not brandy, anyway. It’s bourbon.”
The otter leaned forward, and now he looked equally confused. “Peculiar, mate. I get chocolate liqueur this time.”
And Jon-Tom again, “Sour mash—or vodka. Say, what’s going on here?”
Clothahump was trying to keep his glasses dry against the downpour that was soaking them. “It’s none of those, my boy. The particular ingredient to which you refer and which you are having such difficulty identifying is far more basic, not to mention expensive. I would never utilize it so freely were it not for the seriousness of this moment of mercy. It is very scarce, very hard to come by, and very much in demand, and not only by those of us who dabble in the sorcerous arts. We call it Essoob.” He glanced upward again, studying the storm with a critical eye.
It was raining steadily. The thunder had worked itself out, and now there was only the steady patter of rain against the ground. There was no wind and the big drops came straight down.
“Never heard of it,” Jon-Tom confessed.
“Essence of Booze. I determined that we needed not only to prime this particular cloud but to shock it back to normality. I also had to utilize something that would mix well with water.”
Mudge was standing with his head back and his mouth open, swallowing and smacking his lips. “Well, I’ll be a shrew with a migraine! Drink up, mate! We’ll likely never stand in a storm the likes o’ this ever again!” Sorbl, too, was partaking of the alcoholic rain, had been since the descent of the first drops. That explained the owl’s unusual silence, Jon-Tom mused. The famulus was drifting peacefully in some imbiber’s heaven.
Cautiously he parted his lips and sucked in the moisture that was running off his nose. Creme de me’nthe. A second slurp brought home the taste of Galliano, a third of Midori, or something like it.
Enough, he told himself firmly. He was not thirsty and had no desire to be unconscious.
“Oasafin!” Mudge was babbling. “Terraquin. Coosage, guinal, essark, goodmage, sankerberry wine!” The otter was lying on his back in the mud, his arms and legs spread wide but not as wide as his mouth.
And he wasn’t the only one, for the unique properties of the downpour Clothahump had induced had not passed unnoticed among the other inhabitants of Ospenspri. They came stumbling out of their mud and wattle houses, in pairs and trios at first, then in a delighted, exuberant rush. Even those citizens who considered themselves teetotalers participated, for they could hardly pass on such a wonderful piece of sorcerous business and leave it to their less inhibited neighbors to tell them all about it when it was over.
As the aromatic rain continued to fall it began to have an affect on the desiccated trees and shriveled plants. Flowers bloomed from seemingly dead stalks. Bushes put out new, fresh green growth. Up in the ruined orchards the apple and tokla trees straightened; their limbs lifted and erupted in a burst of green. They did not put forth fruit, for it was too late in the season, but next year’s harvest would surely be spectacular.
The rain worked its most wondrous transformation out in the fields of late autumn wheat. The flattened, burned stalks lifted skyward, and the dry heads grew swollen with golden kernels. Not merely gold in color but in promise. Because for months thereafter, any bread baked from that season’s threshing was famed throughout the Bellwoods and even beyond.
Renowned and marveled at, bread and long rolls alike, for their texture and color and most especially of all, the faintly alcoholic flavor each bite imparted to the palate.
Through the rain and the fog that accompanied it, Jon-Tom could witness the transformation of Ospenspri and its inhabitants. The city itself seemed to straighten as it returned to health, buildings and citizens alike drawing strength from the rain and the concomitant metamorphosis of the cloud. As that black mass of moisture lightened, so did the mood of the city and the lands surrounding it. As he stared, Ospenspri changed from an island of devastation and despair to the jewel of the north.
The mud huts vanished, to be replaced by finely wrought structures of hardwood and dressed stone. The mud seemed to dissolve beneath his feet, leaving behind yard-square paving blocks of ocher-streaked white marble. Close by, the mud spring was transformed into a graceful spire of filagreed arches. Water spurted or trickled from dozens of nozzles. Set among the marble sculptures that comprised the fountain were hundreds of the brilliant green garnets called peridots, which gave the square its name.
The storm was beginning to abate, the black cloud to break up. Once the dissolution had begun, it proceeded rapidly. For the first time in weeks the sun shone brightly on the tormented city. The thirsty earth soaked up what precipitation managed to escape the tubs and rain barrels of the inhabitants. Having spent its force, the cloud and the perturbation it had sheltered faded away with equal alacrity.
Nor was the city all that returned to normal. Mudge had straightened and now danced a wild saraband on the marble edge of the towering fountain. But Jon-Tom found his attention drawn to the one citizen of Ospenspri who had greeted them.
No longer crooked and bent, the old fox stood tall and proud before Clothahump. He was bigger than Mudge, and his silver-streaked ears were on a level with Jon-Tom’s shoulders. As both wizard and spellsinger looked on, he performed a deep, profound bow. In place of the dirty rags he’d been wearing when he’d initially approached the visitors, he now wore a splendid suit of dark brown edged with green velvet and fastened with hardwood buttons inlaid with brass. A peculiarly narrow hat of green felt and leather rested between his ears.