Modern Magick

The Wonders of Vale: 20

'I'm a butterfly,' I said in wonder.

No, I didn't. I tried to speak, but seeing as I was lacking the right mouth parts, nothing much emerged.

I was also wrong, as soon became apparent, for no butterfly had gnarly, greeny-browny, webby toes and a fierce hunger for fresh, juicy flies.

'I'm a toad,' I said. 'With wings.' No words emerged that time either, but my tongue did. It went a long, long way out, and returned with a fly stuck to its tip.

I didn't want to swallow that fly, but I did.

Yuck.

Pros to the situation: me and my bosom companions (and Miranda) were no longer pinned at the edge of the hilltop of Mount Vale, a steep drop behind us and an angry mob before us. We were airborne; soaring through the dulcet skies; wafted upon wings wrought of Orlando's weird magick. (Did it have to be a toad, Orlando? Really?)

The cons? Those same dreamy skies happened to be filled with a swarm of griffins, recently released from slavery and absolutely hopping mad.

'Orlando!' I screamed (in my head) as I ducked the advances of the nearest griffin, tumbling head-over-wings in my haste to escape its snapping beak. Boy, do those things look big when you're that small. 'This is not my idea of good luck!' I only belatedly recalled that Orlando hadn't said anything about good luck. The word he had used had been chaos.

To say the least.

I risked a glance around, first chance I got, and was not reassured. A wooden bucket full of soapy water drifted past me; had to be one of us, surely, but who? Jay, Em or Mir? At least they weren't edible. On my other side, though, was an oversized fairy cake, unusually buoyant, and doubtlessly delicious; and beyond that, a small memorandum book, covers flapping like wings, its pages rapidly turning damp and soggy in the never-ending drizzle.

The bucket up-ended itself, pouring its load of soap and water out onto the ground far below. Then it darted in my direction, and scooped me up.

I fell into the bucket's depths with a plop.

All right, so I couldn't see a thing, and had to just trust that the bucket was the current shape of someone I knew and trusted. But! Woodish bucket walls are griffin-proof.

I permitted myself a small sigh of relief — and narrowly avoided a squashing as the fairy cake hurtled down upon me from above, followed by the memorandum book.

Looking at the former, I became painfully aware of gnawing hunger. When was the last time we had remembered to eat? And look at the thing! Fat, curvaceous, positively drowning in icing that smelled of peaches—

'Ves?' said the book, somehow, but it was addressing the cake, not the winged toad.

I mean, of course it was. If I'd had a choice, I would have gone for the cake, and never mind the consequences.

Griffins probably don't even like cake, anyway.

I made some small attempt at a response, but that being as successful as my earlier efforts I gave up, and sat catching my breath while the book did its level best to engage the cake in conversation.

...Did I just say that?

Our adventures don't get any more sensible, do they?

Some little time later, our courteous bucket-escort made a graceful dive, and carefully emptied us all out onto the ground again. There was grass under me, my exquisitely sensitive toes were quick to discern, but more than that I could not have said. The world was too big to admit of greater detail; everything beyond about three inches distant was a vague, green blur.