A/n: For better or worse, Cordelia is not making an appearance in this chapter, and she probably won't be in the next one either (for better or worse, she will come back later, and the two storylines—i.e. the Cordelia one and the Porthaven one—will come together and have bizarre mutant children ... ) ... in the meantime, someone else makes an appearance in this chapter ... and okay, I need to stop putting teasers everywhere (and I also need to stop using ellipses). ;p
Chapter Three: In which a little balloon causes a lot of fuss
A rare event had occurred, one rarer than the coming of Haley's comet: Howell Jenkins had begun to doubt himself.
To give the man (and his arrogance … err … confidence …) credit, it was only a twinge of doubt. Any normal human being would have bowed their head and conceded defeat by now. But not Howell Jenkins—not the Sorcerer Jenkin (as he was calling himself these days). He absolutely refused to give in! One way or another,he was going to establish himself in Porthaven. Alternatively, he planned on dying a horribly tragic death while trying to establish himself in Porthaven—the kind of horribly tragic death that bards write epic poems about and that downtrodden people make religions out of and that Americans make bad movies out of and …
Oh, but it was no good. Even as these thoughts coursed through his mind, Howell felt that dratted twinge again. First of all, "the Sorcerer Jenkin" did not have a very impressive ring to it … what had he been thinking, using that name? And that was just the least of his problems.
Howell had been in Porthaven for four months now, and aside from a few desperate teenagers looking for love spells, he still barely had any business. He had been all over town, from the baker's to the butcher's to the candlestick maker's, all in a grand attempt to sell his services. He had been aggressively charismatic and charismatically aggressive, but to no avail. Even after he had performed a few marvelous demonstrations for them, they still refused him. Things are already great as they are, they informed him.
For all his brilliance, Howell could not figure out why the people of Porthaven were responding to him in this way. Sure, there had been the baby-killing-dragon scandal. But he had quickly cleared that up with a bit of reasoning, a fair amount of flirting, and a heavy dose of charm. As an added precaution, he had even transfigured his bright pink suit so that it was now the slightly less shocking color of salmon. By all means, he should have been good to go after that. Even if these people were wary of magic (or of men wearing neon colors), he didn't see how they could resist the magnetism of a gorgeous and talented wizard such as himself for too long.
But resist they did, causing Howell to become increasingly perplexed, frustrated, and depressed. That, and hungry, too. Oh yes, that was yet another difficulty he could add to his already monumental list of woes. You see, after that incident with the landlord, Howell had quickly used up the remainder of his money. On the upside of things, he wasn't going to be worrying about rent for quite some time (and he had bought the most exquisite set of imported coral jewelry with the money he had left over …). On the downside of things, he was only able to steal so much food from Megan's house before she noticed …
Well, no need to belabor the point any more. It can easily be seen why Howell was suffering from these abominable twinges. Luckily for Howell, though, he had an ace up his trailing sleeve—and no, it had nothing to do with eating seaweed. Recently, Howell's divination spells had revealed that a fierce storm was barreling up from the southern oceans towards Ingary. It would be the first truly dangerous weather the country had seen in months. And from the looks of it, Porthaven would be caught right in the middle of it.
The news made Howell smile. Not that he relished the thought of sailors fending for their lives in a tempest. And never mind the sailors—he didn't want to be caught in a tempest, either, even if he was safe and sheltered on land. But the approaching storm meant that the residents of Porthaven finally had a genuine need for magic. No more trying to sell them spells to whiten the teeth or charms to vaporize moles—no more! Howell had something much more valuable to offer them now. He had protection spells.
Early in the day, Howell sauntered out of his crooked house, salmon suit gleaming in the sunlight, one coral stone hanging from his ear. He whistled a little tune of his own design that was quite jaunty (though terribly off-key). He almost seemed to be skipping across the cobblestones in his shining leather boots.
He headed for the harbor, as he had many times before in the past few months when he was making his self-promotion rounds. As usual, he found the place bustling with activity. Boats were coming and going, their sails fluttering in the stiff breeze. Cranes were groaning as they moved heavy wooden crates from ship deck to dock and back again. Captains were barking out orders, fishermen were unloading their nets, sailors and deckhands were scrambling up and down gangplanks and rope ladders and masts. Fish merchants had set up their stalls and were feverishly haggling with both sellers and buyers. And children ran blithely about the quayside, playing ball or simply chasing seagulls, oblivious to the work going on about them.
Howell smiled to himself as a gaggle of kids went streaking past with a worn brown ball tangled up in their whirling mass of running, kicking legs. It made him think of playing rugby with his friends when he was a boy. Perhaps not all of Porthaven's similarities to his home world were so bad …
A gust of wind blew sheets of blue-black hair across his face, shaking him from his nostalgia. Using one hand to shield his eyes from the brilliant sun, he scanned the harbor, searching the busy scene for a particular face. Many of the faces were familiar to him by now. He had gotten to know quite a few of the captains and fishermen during his one-man advertising campaigns. Most of them treated him warily or as a nuisance, their response to him being lukewarm at best. But some were friendlier than others, some such as … aha! Howell had found his man: Captain Longhorn.
Howell strode over to where the Captain was standing in front of his ship, perusing some papers on a clipboard that were presumably an inventory. Longhorn was perhaps the oldest sea captain still working in Porthaven. His hair was snow white and his skin was a leathery reddish-brown from decades of practically living out on the open water. Rumor had it that he was over 100 years old. And Howell would have believed it, too, had the man not been quite so tough and spry.
Longhorn was also one of the most respected sea captains in Porthaven. And he liked Howell, for reasons that were just as mysterious as the rest of the town's reasons for disliking Howell. Maybe it was because Howell could out drink him. Maybe it was because they both had long hair. It was anyone's guess. But Howell was sure that he could convince the man to buy a protection spell for his ship. And once Longhorn jumped on the magical train of, well, magic, it was only a matter of time before the younger captains and sailors of Porthaven followed the veteran's example. Then, once the seafarers of the town had become Howell's customers, crowd mentality should kick in, leading everyone to start buying his spells … right?
Admittedly, Howell had never been able to convince Longhorn to buy any other kind of spell. Not even a wind spell. In fact, the good captain had almost seemed insulted by the implication that his natural talents as a sailor needed magical augmentation. But Howell felt that this storm was a special case. Longhorn was not the kind of man who appreciated having to interrupt his work for something as insignificant and capricious as the weather. However, he wasn't a reckless man either (you don't get to be a 100 year old sea captain by being reckless). He wouldn't risk his cargo or his neck simply for the sake of defying nature. But if Howell could provide him with something that would allow him to safely defy nature … well, surely he would jump at the chance.
"Captain Longhorn!" Howell called out jovially. "Heading out again so soon?"
"Boy, when you get to be my age, you'll realize that you can't stop moving or you'll never be able to start back up again," Longhorn raised his head to regard Howell with wry blue eyes. "You're up early, ain't you? Come to try to sweet talk me into buying another spell of yours?"
"Ah, you've caught me," Howell declared, deeming that at this point it was best not to deny the accusation.
"Well, don't bother," Longhorn told him gruffly, returning his attention to his clipboard. "The answer is 'no' and you know it."
"Oh come now, you haven't even heard me out!" Howell protested genially.
Longhorn laughed—a harsh, throaty bark. "What's to hear? I've heard all about what you have to offer—from you and a dozen other folks complaining about your pestering. And I'll tell you, I ain't missing nothing."
"A storm is coming," Howell said, cutting straight to the chase.
"There've been storms before and there'll be more storms after," was Longhorn's response.
"Not like this one," Howell looked Longhorn straight in the eye, trying to be as dramatic as possible. "Ingary hasn't seen a storm like this in a hundred years—"
"I'll be the judge of that," Longhorn cut in, chuckling.
"—and Porthaven's going to be caught right in the thick of it," Howell continued. "You want to set sail within the next few days? With this weather coming in, there's not a chance of that happening—you'll be grounded for quite some time, unless you want to end up sleeping with the fish."
"I'll be sleeping the long sleep sometime soon, no matter what I do," Longhorn mused half-jokingly. "Don't suppose it makes much of a difference whether it's with the fish or with the worms."
"To you, no, I suppose it wouldn't make a difference," Howell observed, half smiling, half grimacing. "It's the fish I'm concerned about. I don't know if they could deal with such an ornery ghost."
"What should I do then? For the sake of the fish, that is?" Longhorn asked, indulging Howell.
"Listen, with one of my protection spells, you could sail through the eye of a hurricane without a scratch. It's so simple—if you buy one, storm or no storm, you can ship out right on schedule without a care in the world. You won't have to stop moving, the fish will be spared, your customers will be satisfied—"
"And you'll be satisfied even more than them," Longhorn noted.
"Everyone wins," Howell agreed, smiling brightly.
"Boy, I know you're just trying to get by like everyone else," Longhorn said. "But you ain't gonna make it like this."
Like this? Howell thought to himself. What the hell does that mean?
Before Howell could voice some variation of this thought aloud, a serious looking man with a thick beard called out a greeting to Longhorn and came striding over.
"Need help getting rid of some vermin, captain?" the man cocked his head towards Howell and laughed at the blatancy of his insult.
This man also had a familiar face. It might have been a handsome face, too, were it not hidden behind such vast amounts of brown facial hair. Howell couldn't remember the fellow's name, but it was clear that he fell into the category of people who acted lukewarm towards him at best, and who were downright nasty at their worst. Howell gritted his teeth, and had to shove his hands into his pockets to prevent himself from "accidentally" cursing the man, or perhaps just giving him a good throttling. With his hands safely restrained, he began to utter a retort, but Captain Longhorn cut in before he could get it out.
"That's awfully generous of you, Jethro, but there don't seem to be any about today."
"My mistake then," Jethro apologized while eyeing Howell warily.
Howell stared right back at the man, hardening his green eyes, hoping that his steely gaze adequately hid the fact that he was beginning to squirm internally. There was something about the way Jethro was looking at him that made him terribly uncomfortable in a way that not even Mrs. Pentstemmon could manage.
"My friend here was just telling me about a terrible storm that's supposed to hit soon," Longhorn stated conversationally.
"Really? A storm?" Jethro scoffed. "I don't believe it."
"If you know what's good for you, you will," Howell asserted.
"Oh, and I suppose you know what's good for me, do you? Tell me, are you going to show me this storm?" Jethro challenged.
"Unfortunately, sir, that's not how it works," Howell inclined his head politely, while still keeping his gaze as firm and cold as possible. "If divination were that simple, any sea monkey would be able to do it."
"Well, you know what, this sea monkey has lived on the water for almost forty years now," Jethro's face flushed with anger. "I don't care what your divination nonsense tells you. My experience tells me that we're going to be having fine weather this week. The wind is coming from the west, there aren't any rings around the moon, the doors and windows are opening fine … would you like me to go on? Or has your divination told you not to use common sense as well?"
Howell nearly laughed at the man's adherence to weather lore. He had forgotten how backwards science could be here sometimes. Of course, this kind of lore wasn't entirely inaccurate—the signs that Jethro had listed did tend to accompany fair weather. If they didn't, sailors wouldn't still be following them after all this time. But meteorologists in Howell's home world couldn't even predict the weather with 100 accuracy (to the great dismay of the general public), and they were armed with state of the art instruments that were constantly collecting data on the atmosphere. So how could anyone here expect to be accurate (without the help of magic, that is) when all they could do was look at the sky or the direction in which the cows were facing? Sure, the wind was in the west now, there were no rings around the moon now … but that could easily change overnight, and did not prove Howell's prediction wrong with any kind of certainty.
"You know what I think? I think that you're …" Jethro was still going, steaming away much like Megan might have. Perhaps his resemblance to Megan was what unnerved Howell so much. "… and I think that you're just making up these cock-and-bull stories about imaginary storms so that you can make a buck. Am I right?"
Howell was about to say something about trying to save the sorry arses of ignorant sailors, when a fourth party unexpectedly (and thankfully) broke into the midst of their pleasant conversation.
"Dad, can I have some money to buy a balloon animal from Mr. Pickens?" a young boy with curly brown hair had sidled up to Jethro, and was now tugging on his woolen sleeve.
Howell finally tore his gaze away from Jethro's bearded face in order to look for Mr. Pickens. He was easy enough to spot—he dressed like a clown, minus the red nose and ridiculous make-up, and he frequently walked about on stilts. Today it seemed that he had foregone the stilts in favor of wearing a monstrously shiny pair of oversized red shoes. He was standing on the quayside, blithely making balloon animals while the gaggle of children that had previously been playing with the brown ball swarmed and surrounded him. Howell felt a surge of jealousy. Even this buffoon was having a better time with business than he was. How unfair!
"Michael, do you even have to ask?" Jethro's voice contained a strange mix of irritation and regret as he answered his son. "You know we can't afford silly things like that."
Howell felt that this had to be an exaggeration. It was a balloon, not a diamond. And neither Jethro nor his son appeared to be starving. Surely the man could spare a few pence. If Howell hadn't been hopelessly broke, he would have bought the boy a balloon himself. In any case, he was nearly inspired to protest on the child's behalf. But from the look on his face, Michael didn't seem to be disappointed. He handled the rejection well, nodding stoically as if he had heard this kind of thing a hundred times before. In truth, he had probably heard this kind of thing a thousand times before.
On a whim, Howell knelt down and picked a stone up off the ground. Then, with a flick of his wrist and a well-directed pulse of energy, he willed the small grey rock into changing its shape. All at once, it expanded, changed color, became lighter, and took on a rubbery texture. Before the two sailors and the lone boy even realized what Howell was doing, a balloon had appeared in his hands, already twisted into the shape of a fanciful dog.
"In that case, here's something silly for free," Howell handed the balloon to Michael, who seemed to have gone into an advanced state of shock.
"Wow, mister," Michael gawked at the orange balloon-dog that he was now holding. "How did you do that?"
"Magic," Howell tried, and failed, at suppressing a grin. No one had been this openly impressed with him in ages. It felt outrageously good to be appreciated again, even if it was over something so small.
"So you really are a wizard then!" Michael exclaimed. "My dad always said—"
He cut off abruptly at this point, suddenly remembering that his father was standing right next to him. Jethro was glowering fiercely. Howell braced himself, knowing that he was about to hear something along the lines of how they didn't need his charity and would he kindly refrain from doling out favors that weren't asked for and would he please keep his nose out of other people's business and would he take the balloon back now so that they could be on their way, etc. etc.
But Jethro didn't say anything. It went against all of Howell's assumptions and expectations, but it had suddenly become clear that Jethro was the kind of man who was willing to put his child's happiness above his pride.
"Say 'thank you' Michael," Jethro instructed through a clenched jaw.
"Thank you, mister!" Michael said, eyes still wide.
"You're welcome," Howell replied.
"We'll be on our way now, captain," Jethro waved at Captain Longhorn while pointedly ignoring Howell. "Take care of yourself."
"I always do," Longhorn assured the man, a bemused expression painted on his weathered face.
Jethro shot Howell a parting glare, then proceeded to usher his son away with a hand firmly pressed against his narrow back. Involuntarily, Howell felt himself soften towards the man. Perhaps I shouldn't have called him a sea monkey after all …
"Well, boy, if the magic business keeps going the way it is, you can always join up with Mr. Pickens," Longhorn told Howell with a chuckle, before striding away, clipboard in hand.
More a/n: Sorry if this chapter was long and boring. It is needed for later events (although of course that's no excuse).I tried to cut it down a bit. But if you've made it this far, let me know what you think (pretty please with sugar on top? ;-P)!