A Mage and His Dog

Chapter 1

          I definitely was not satisfied with the situation as I surveyed the wet, dismal path leading to the marketplace. The prospect of another four miles of trudging through soggy, swampy forest made me ache and shiver even as I thought of it, but the trip had to be made, for I'd dawdled long enough in resolving my trouble. I shivered and continued plodding through the mud, mumbling semicoherent curses at the creature responsible for this revolting journey.

          Blasted Beast. That wasn't her name, but since she didn't pay attention when I did use her name I'd long ago resorted to this quaint little moniker. Her real name was Anaquahila, "She Who Sees Beyond Shadows," and she was supposed to be an aid in my practice of the magical arts. A familiar, that was the traditional trade of her species, but this little feline was thoroughly unacquainted with the concept. She slept around all day, clamored for food at regular intervals, and chased her tail when she was feeling extraordinarily active. To be fair, I supposed I should give her credit for her twice-daily demon chases—at least, that's the only way I could interpret her sudden starts and stops as she romped around the cottage, leaving a trail of books and flasks and candles behind her. But Beastie never catches any demons, and anyway, that's not my field at all—I haven't the stamina to be a sorcerer. So much for my theory that the graceful, mysterious cat would be the perfect mage's companion for my moody, cynical temperament. At least she kept the cot free of mice.

          So that explained my long trip into Heron Village; the day had broken clear and fresh, just perfect for a brisk, invigorating six-mile trek to the market. There, I vowed, I would find an associate appropriate to my magical talents—a wise-seeming owl, perhaps, or maybe a gura-lizard, small but treacherous. As my march continued, however, the blue skies turned murky just as surely as if some alchemist had seeded it with Gorgon's-breath, and I didn't have to be a mage to predict that I was going to become very, very uncomfortable. Sure enough, half a mile later the first plump drops splattered onto my face, infusing my leather jacket and trousers with a dampness I knew no magic or fire would dismiss. I cursed the Beastie again, more loudly this time.

          "Ya know, bub, ya really shouldn't blame Ana for her demon chasin' habit," a gruff voice said from behind me. "That kinda thing has run in her family for ages. The merchant really shoulda told ya."

          I whirled about, mentally rehearsing the meager combat spells I'd let rust during my hermitage at the cot. I saw no one around me, and I didn't see any evidence of subethereal tampering, so the guy couldn't have been invisible. "Who the hell are you, why don't you show your face—and what kind of excuse is that for a familiar, anyway?" I snapped.

          A slight rustling sound drew my attention. "Down here, mister." I peered down into a pair of deep, brown eyes—sad, mournful, puppy orbs they were, for my unasked-for advice was coming from a dog. "It's not an excuse," he continued, "it's just a reason for her behavior. Ya shouldn't trust cats, anyway. They forget what they're doin', especially when a subethereal mouse comes nosin' along."

          I snorted once. "What do you know about the subether, pup? Or anything else about the magic business, for that matter?" I was a trifle annoyed; here I was, an honors graduate of the Mydwyn College of Magical Arts, and a mangy mutt was instructing me about familiars. I glared at the dog, who looked completely innocuous with his dirty fur, floppy ears, and slightly crooked tail wagging obliviously through the mud. "Shouldn't you be watching your herd, or scenting deer, or whatever it is you canine folk do?"

          The dog panted in a half-smile and wagged his tail even faster as a high-pitched chuckle bounded from his chest. It sounded like a smothered bark. "Yeah, right, buddy." He chuckled once more. "Since ya obviously don't know much about important things, I'll just hafta give ya the straight poop." He barked sharply, overcome by the dubious humor of his remark. I winced, and prepared for a lecture on the innate magicality of Nature, especially that of Her creatures.

          "I have a nose for magic, O wise wizard of the woods." He produced another laughing bark. "Your fancy school didn't teach ya everything, did it, bub? Some of us 'pups,'"—he dropped his voice into a raspy whisper—"we can tell what's goin' on in the magical realms as well as here in the daylight world. A djinn stinks just as much as a fox ta us, and we can hear things movin' through the subether just as easy as we would a doe movin' through the underbrush. You people'd just rather use our talents ta help ya feed your face than ta help ya master the known universes."

          The dog stopped talking to turn around and bite at some fleas on his rear, so I took the opportunity to interrupt his little lecture.

          "Well, I don't doubt that some individuals of your species are magically talented, Sir Spot," I said, trying to shut him up. "But, as I asked you before you deigned to enlighten me, what makes you such an expert at it? If you're such a powerful puppy, what are you doing in the middle of a rainstorm in the middle of nowhere?"

          The dog whimpered briefly, then started giggling in my face. "I'll tell ya, harf, harf, harf.  I'm, harf, waitin' for you, harf, harf, the mighty mage Manny of Mydwyn!!" The dog collapsed in a spate of helpless spasms, further muddying his already indistinguishable coat.

          I was unimpressed. Even though he knew my name and Beastie's, I thought it was more likely that he'd followed me into town in hopes of picking up on some leftovers at the market. I prepared to aim a tiny "hotfoot" spell at his hind end to get rid of him. I didn't need any more trouble on my heels than I already had.

          "Whoa, bud!" The dog yelped and jumped sharply to his left, out of the range of the spell. "What kinda way is that ta treat your future familiar? Sneakin' up on me through the subether! Hrrruff! I should report ya to the Brethren for Animal Rights and Causes!"

          I'm not sure which surprised me more—the dog's crafty avoidance of my spell, his threat of legal action, or his bizarre assertion that he was destined to be my accomplice in the art of magic. It must have been the last, for a loud guffaw escaped me as I considered the image of this panting puppy participating in any of my spells. Would he fetch magical herbs or creatures for me? Would he scent out evil spells in the subether? Would he create arcane wind currents with a wag of his wobbly tail? Amusement overcame my indignation, and I continued to chuckle softly as I turned back towards the town.

          "Hey, wait a minute!" I heard the dog call after me. "It's true!  I've scented it comin' in the subether!" His barking voice grew softer as I broke into a trot, beginning to put some distance between us. "It's not supposed ta happen this way!"  the dog howled. "Come back here nowooooooooo!"

          I should have known that an animal so clearly deluded wouldn't give up so easily, but I guess I was still so tickled by his suggestion that he would be my familiar that I wasn't thinking with my normal perception.  So when I heard a gruff voice interrupt me in the midst of my bargaining session with the falconer, it threw my concentration off.

          "Psssst!  Not that one!"  he whispered towards me.  "He has bad night vision—I've seen him fly into trees lotsa times."  The bird in question was a resplendent owl, with snowytipped feathers and exquisitely taloned feet; a powerful creature destined for powerful things.  I ignored my self-appointed advisor and returned to the fray.

          "Now, how many dracms were we down to?  Forty-five?"  At the price I named, one considerably higher than my previous offer, the merchant winced with disgust and turned to barter with someone obviously more interested in concluding a business deal.  I aimed a kick towards the direction of my supposed savior.

          Once again, however, he was quicker than I, for when I looked down and around I saw no sign of him, not even a flick of his crooked tail.  I sauntered over to another stall, this one inhabited by an assortment of reptiles and their slightly seedy master.  I peered into one cage, and was greeted with a none-too-friendly hiss, accompanied by the stench of partially digested mouse.  Well, maybe cold-blooded creatures weren't quite my style after all, I thought and quickly retreated from the serpent's den.

          "Good choice," my tormentor commented.  "Snakes can cause real problems with plumbing, and they tend ta doze off around magic braziers.  Not good when dealin' with fire elementals."

          I was beginning to feel a bit aggravated, and set off directly opposite the source of the voice.  Maybe if I went to the food tent and discretely dropped a sausage or two I could dispense with my canine shadow.  I purchased a few of Zimon's famous meat creations—almost worth the entire six-mile trip by themselves—slipped one down where I sensed the dog had been following me, and left quickly towards the cat breeders' stalls.  So I'd been unlucky with my first feline; perhaps a second attempt would prove more fruitful.

          I spotted a beautiful, long-haired silver tabby in the corner cage, and drew in a quick breath as I approached and offered one finger for her inspection.  She stretched out her neck and took a delicate sniff of my hand.  Evidently pleased with my scent (perhaps it was the lingering traces of sausage), she rubbed her head against my hand and purred.  Enchanting.  A very likely candidate for an arcane partnership, I thought, sensing a magical current stirring between us.

          "She comes from a long line of successful familiars," the merchant cooed in my ear as I continued making the lovely cat's acquaintance.  I stroked her behind the ears and down along her cheek and the rumbling increased.  I began envisioning a fine-tuned magical union, man and tabby, magician and tiny descendant of tigers.

          "She sure is pretty, but she'll give ya trouble," said a growly singsong by my side.  "Furballs.  She gets those while you're makin' up a spell, you'll get magic sneezed all over the place.  Could be dangerous."

          "Ridiculous," I murmured, half towards the fascinating feline, half towards my pesky companion.  I straightened up to ask the merchant a price when I heard a slight cough from the cage.

          "It's just a slight cold," the breeder quickly explained.  "I had her checked out just this morning.  She should be well within a week."  I looked over the cat, and, seeing nothing more than the merchant had described, looked down at the dog with a smug look of satisfaction and commenced the bargaining.

          Ten minutes and thirty dracms later, I was the proud companion of one silver tabby named Mellisonanda, despite the constant whufflings and grunts of "you'll be sorry" coming from beneath the tradesman's table.  Feeling the triumph of a trouble resolved fittingly, I began my journey home with a lighter heart, if hampered by a heavier and still damp pack.  I saw no sign of my erstwhile follower, and assumed he had finally given up his ridiculous delusion; in the face of my superior human reasoning, he really had no alternative.

          The trip home was uneventful and I spent the time conjuring up pictures of finally starting the successful practice of wizardry I'd imagined since I was a student.  I was entering the cot, wavering between daydreams of acclaim as a wandering mage and eminence as an arcane scholar, when I was rudely shaken out of my reverie by a series of low, threatening growls.  Magical creatures they might claim to be, Anaquahila and Mellisonanda were responding to an older, more ingrained feline imperative: the encroachment of another upon one's territory!  Realizing I was in danger of being caught in the center of a fullblown catfight, I hurriedly rushed my new tabby into my sleeping quarters and slammed the door.

          Releasing Melli to explore her new home, I was startled by the growing ferocity of howls coming from the normally dormant Beastie, for I'd never seen or heard her so active.  She seemed as eager to pursue this new interloper as she was to chase demons; Melli, however, appeared only to demonstrate that innate quality belonging to cats as she sniffed under the doorway, searching for a potential playmate.  But when her nose came close enough to the doorway to be met with Beastie's avenging paw, she emitted a howl of pain and I rushed to pick her up and take her away from the objectionable claws.  All this excitement proved too much for Melli's delicate constitution, and she began a series of coughs that increased in volume until I finally set her down on my bed-whereupon she delicately deposited a furball.  That unpleasant business concluded, she perched herself firmly on the window and began to groom her already gleaming coat.

          Somehow I wasn't too astonished to hear a husky "harf harf harf HARF!" coming from outside the cot.  I opened the window quietly, and this time my doggy friend was too overcome with mirth to avoid my hottail spell.

          "OWRP!  OwrOoooo!" he howled, chasing his rear around and around, instantly instilling me with a sense of remorse.  There's something about a dog's high-pitched squeal of pain that makes a person feel guilty, even when he isn't the cause of it—and I could hardly claim to be innocent of being the cause, anyway.

          I trudged through the house, being careful to avoid letting the Beastie into the bedroom with her prey, and went outside to find the dog and express my apologies—or avoid a bite, whichever was most appropriate.  Neither hostile with anger nor cowering from fear as I had expected, the pup was resting his hind end in a cooling puddle of mud, and still chuckling.

          "Well, you did ask for it," I mumbled, this being about as close as I could come to apologizing to an animal.  "When you anger a mage, you should expect to pay the price."  I straightened up and raised my voice to a dignified level.  "I regret that I allowed my wrath to overcome my better judgment.  I should know better than to expect civilized behavior from one such as you."

          Whether he was suppressing laughter or burrowing his burned behind further into the mud I couldn't tell, but it took a while before the dog responded to my gracious statement.

          "Yeah, bub, sure.  And when you ignore common sense, ya should expect ta get burned!  What did I tell ya about that tabby!  I can't wait ta see ya try your first spell with her huffin' and puffin' and stirrin' up the subether with her furballs!  It'll be more fun than watchin' an imp loose in a hen house!"

          I was about to reply that he wouldn't be seeing much of anything if he didn't stop annoying me, but my latent conscience stopped me.  I just stared at him, meaning to impress him with a sense of my maturity in combining power and mercy.

          The dog's voice interrupted my impressive display of patience.  "Well, mister, I think ya at least owe me a bath in exchange for this little joke of yours.  I got enough mud in my fur ta plaster that roof of yours.  You got a brush, don'tcha?  You scrub, I'll rinse."

          Truly incredible; the stupid mutt was insufferably persistent.  I reminded myself to be less subtle next time, and turned towards the cot to fetch the required instruments.  A little soap would be in order, too, I thought as I wrinkled my nose.  When I returned, my canine friend was contently splashing in the leakage from the well pump.

          "Come on, you might as well do it right," I said grumpily, working the pump until the dog was thoroughly drenched.  I began soaping with a vengeance, intent on finishing my penance and this ridiculous episode as quickly as possible.

          "Ahh, that's just right, mate.  Oh yes, scrub just a bit ta the left, please."  He fell on his side and his leg jerked involuntarily as I complied with his wishes.  It was at that moment, with the dog in a considerably cleaner state, that I noticed that my initial assumptions about the nature of my companion were in error.

          "You're a bitch!"  I exclaimed, being unable to equate this mouthy, stubborn animal with the friendly, eager-to-please breeders my mother had kept as pets back at home.

          "Don't stop scratchin'!" she whined, and I complied, still trying to adjust to my mistake; I had fancied myself a rather good judge of animals.  She was actually cleaning up quite attractively, with a rich black fur emerging from the mass of mud to complement the chestnut patches on her beagle's face.  She was rather stocky for a hunting dog, however, so at least my classification of her as a "mutt" was most likely correct.  Her tail wagged crookedly as I began rinsing the dirty suds from her back.

          "Ya woulda known that if you'd had the courtesy ta introduce yourself ta me," she retorted curtly, splaying her legs to begin shaking the excess water from her fur.

          "I thought—-hey, watch the water!—I thought you already knew my name," I responded after I jumped back out of the range of her sprinkling.

          "Well sure I do.  Doran Manuel of Mydwyn, honors graduate of the College of Magical Arts, temporarily unemployed," the dog chanted.  "But everyone calls ya Manny so's they don't confuse ya with your weird Uncle Doran who lives in a tree somewhere."

          "He does not live in trees—he just studies them.  And how did you know all that anyway?  I suppose my mother sent you here, didn't she?  I knew there was a reason I hadn't heard from her in a while," I muttered as I made a mental note to write her with reassurances of my well-being.

          "Whoa, Manny, don'tcha think you're stretchin' things a bit far here?" the dog asked.  "I'm not the kind of pup your mom would let in the house, right?  So she wouldn't exackly trust me with spyin' on you, now would she?"  I nodded and waited for further explanation, but the dog seemed strangely recalcitrant.

          "Well?" I queried after a lengthy pause.  "So how did you come to be in possession of such vast knowledge?"

          "I'm not sayin' nothin' until you introduce yourself.  Ya shouldn't abuse your hospitalitic duties this way, even if I am a dog."  With these words, my unwanted guest trotted over to the pump and began lapping water loudly enough to overpower any apology I might make.

          At this point I was resigned to doing anything—almost—to get this pest out of my life.  I sighed loudly, straightened up, and began a studied recitation: "I, Doran Manuel, late of the Mydwyn College of Magical Arts, do formally request the benefit of your acquaintance."  I completed this with a bow and a flourish, rolling my eyes heavenward.

          "You are most gracious, kind mage," the dog replied.  "May it please you, I am Breela, a beagle of extraordin'ry sight, pleased ta be at your service.  And I will be at your service, you'll see."

          "Oh, will I?  Well, Breela, you certainly speak fair when you put your—ahem—mind to it," I remarked.

          "That's exzackly right," the dog said.  "As for bein' your familiar, if I can prove to you that I have 'talent,' will ya take me on then?"

          "I think not," I answered.

          "Whaddya mean, 'you think not'?  It's a fair enough challenge!  You're not afraid you're wrong, are you?" she snapped, indignation raising the hackles on her neck.

          Really, she was insufferable.  Me—be faced down by a mere mutt?  This creature certainly had some unbelievable notions.

          "No, no, no," I reassured her, hands out.  "I merely was expressing my doubt that anything you could do could convince me to employ you as my assistant."  I smiled; after all, I didn't want to hurt the poor animal's feelings.

          "Fine, then." she said.  She lifted her hind leg, scratched a slightly matted spot, and looked at me.  "Ya said earlier that I speak 'fair' when I put my mind to it.  I suppose ya didn't really think about what that means?"

          "No," I said.  "Why should it mean anything?"

          The dog sighed, a light wheezing sound that turned into a whistle and ended with a grunt.  "It never occurred ta you," she asked with a sarcastic whine, "that it was somethin' unusual for ya ta be talkin' with a dog?  That maybe there was somethin' special about a dog that can speak with words and not barks?"

          I paused.  "I will admit that I was a bit surprised—at first—to find a dog addressing me.  Yes, I'll grant you that."  I smiled magnanimously.  "But remember, I am a mage."

          "Yeah, right.  You're a mage, I'm a dog, a tree's a tree, an' a fool's a fool.  Listen, mister.  Where in all your vast learnin' did ya learn ta understand dogs?  Why haven't ya heard one speak before?  Why now, all of sudden?  Why me?"

          "Why not?" I countered.

          "I'll tell ya why not!" the dog exploded.  "Because it has nothin' ta do with you!  Because ya couldn't understand anything unless I let you!  I bet that right now, with all your magical learnin', you can't make sense of one little sound I make.  That's right now.  Right nowr rowr rowr!  Ruff!  Rowr, ruff ruff ruff ruff ruff, rowr rowr...."  The sounds trailed off as she began gamboling about the yard, barking and growling in the most hideous fashion.  I was a trifle startled by her sudden ferocity.

          "Really, this is quite unnecessary...." I began.

          "Rowrowrowrowrowrowrowr!"

          "It really is very ridiculous...."

          "Rowrowr!  Ruff ruff ruff ruff ruff!"

          "And pointless, as well.  After all, I am a mag—Hey!!   Watch out for the garden over there!"  I began chasing the mutt away from my precious bed of medicinal herbs, accompanied all the while by her yelps, yips, growls, barks, and other ear-piercing noises. 

          My pursuit was stopped abruptly when I tripped over a protruding tree root and fell flat on the ground.  Not exactly an event to maintain one's dignity, especially when the dog quickly wheeled around, raced up to my face, barked sharply, and sped away.

          "Mmmph!!" I said.

          "Rowrf!!" Breela said, returning.  "Rowrowr ruff harf harf harf harf harf," she added, collapsing again into doggy giggles near my face.  "Harf harf harf harf, harf harf harf, I never saw somethin' so funny in all my life!"

          "Now just one minute," I started.

          "Oh, so ya need more proof?  Here, figger this out:

                    "There was a magician named Manny

                    "Whose subethereal skills were uncanny

                    "'Til the day rowr rowr ruff

                    "Ruff ruff rowr rowr ruff

                    "Ruff ruff rowr ruff ruff on his fanny!"

          This really was too much.  "You can't expect to get away with such impudence," I cautioned.  "Especially when you mention my—my—my posterior in that fashion."

          "Ya still can't figger it out, can ya, Manny," the dog taunted.

          "Will you leave me alone if I say yes?"

          "Manny doesn't kno-ow!  Manny doesn't kno-ow!" she singsonged.  "Manny doesn't kno-ow!   Manny doesn't kno—"

          "Alright!  Be quiet!"  I couldn't stand it any longer.  "I will admit that you are the instigator, if you will, of these conversations.  And, as agreed, I will give you a chance to work with me—but just a trial, mind you!  Now will you please give me some peace and quiet!"  I began rubbing my temples to stave off the headache that was creeping up on me.

          "YesSIR!" Breela barked as she began a joyous, bounding circuit of the yard.  "Yes sir, I will!"

          "I can see I'm going to have a lot to teach you," I muttered as I turned toward the sanctuary of the cot.

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