sickle_stories (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sickle_stories) wrote2006-09-13 12:29 pm
sickle_stories) wrote2006-09-13 12:29 pm
Entry tags:
Hero's Manual: Chapter 12
A/N: Huzzah was supposed to be prissy, like a peeved-off Good Omens Arizaphale. I’m a bit surprised by the magic-logic I came up with.
Chapter 12: The Billowing Cloud of Terror
After a brief stroll about the room, searching for anything that would help the pair break open the door, they began exploring the villain’s various collections. By then dusk was well on its way into night, and the room began to return to its original oily darkness.
While Gwen rummaged through a pile of old candles, searching for matches, Hero sat on the lumpy sofa and shivered. Soon Gwen joined him on the sofa, where she continued to rummage through various lamps and flashlights. She handed a few to Hero, though he was much too focused on the intensifying darkness.
Having finished rummaging though her own pile, Gwen glanced at Hero’s.
“Oh, it can’t be…”
“What!” shrieked Hero, inching further into the sofa’s mouldy cushions, arms hugging his knees to his chest.
“That lamp. Hand it over.”
“Lamp,” whimpered Hero, with a single syllable putting all withdrawal sufferers to shame with his desperate plea and veneration.
“Hero? Hand it over,” repeated Gwen. “That thing there. By you foot.” At Hero’s incredulous gaze, she reached over for it. “Why do I bother?”
Gwen stared at the old-style oil lamp, thinking about the bizarre turn her life had taken since Hero’d waltzed into her life and settled into her apartment, “just till Vicky and I sort this whole damsel thing out,” he’d said. She thought about ridiculously named villains, their equally strange entourage, and their skewed plans.
Then she cheerfully rubbed the lamp in her hands from end to end, lifting it up with a flourish and a “huzzah!”
Gwen had never seen ectoplasm before, but she was willing to bet Hero’s head that what was coming out of the lamp was very like ectoplasm. Only purple.
“Yes, I am Huzzah. How may I help you?”
Both Gwen and Hero sat rigid on the dusty sofa. Before them billowed a translucent cloud of purple shaped vaguely like a plump Englishman. There were definite hints of tweed.
“Well?” said the figure, drifting its arms towards its hips. “Were you knocking or did you just decide to give the lamp a polish?” The specter cast a purple glow about it, illuminating the room somewhat.
“…o,” said Hero. He sat up and tried again. “Hello. Um… What are you?” And, because this was the Dungeon of Scary Things and it always serves to be polite, he added, “Mr. Purple Floaty Thing, sir.”
“I am Huzzah,” it replied. The pair before him failed to scream. “Huzzah? The Great Huzzah? The Billowing Cloud of Terror? He Who Floats Among Us?”
The pair shook their heads.
“The Really Big and Powerful Magician That Floats Before You and Deserves Some Bloody Respect?”
“Sorry, no,” said Hero.
“Oh. Well, you might also know me as The Plague of Tea Fields. No? Oh bugger it all. I’m the genie in the lamp. Not the genie, but for you mortals it’s all one and the same. You can call me Huzzah, like I’ve said.”
“Hello, Huzzah,” said Hero and Gwen in unison.
“So… Being a genie and having magical powers—” began Gwen.
“Some magical powers,” corrected Huzzah. You’ve got to order them from Magic Express. They’re really slow in coming too.”
“You mail order you powers?” said Hero, upset that all he ever got by mail order was an incomplete Hero’s Manual.
“Of course. Although the new powers – say, turning a pigeon blue – only come into market every few years.”
“Why’s that?” said Hero.
“That’s when the original owner, some poor sod of a magician, has ‘left the scene’, shall we say.”
“What does a magician’s retirement have to do with Magic Express’ stock of powers?”
“Every time a magician is born, he’s got one particular power. That can either be a new power, like the blue pigeon example I’ve given, or an old power no genie has taken for himself. Throughout our careers, magicians and genies struggle to collect as many powers as we can, often from each other.”
“So what powers do you have?” said Gwen, suddenly realizing that basements do not come equipped with bathrooms. She really wanted to find a way out of the basement now.
“Well… Not many.” At Hero and Gwen’s sudden frowns, Huzzah clarified. “I used to have a quite a number of them, you know. I could do all sorts of things, like changing the shape of small animals, conjuring up water balloons – and before you say anything, I didn’t have a lot of money when I ordered my first batch of powers, so could only choose from the children’s section.”
“But you can’t do that sort of thing now?” said Hero.
“No, because one bastard took them. He took the ones he liked, left me purple, and gave me this lamp for my pains. And do you know how many powers he had?” Huzzah took a deep breath trying to contain himself. “A thousand and one. One Thousand. And one. Listen, I may be immortal and live in a lamp, but that is still one whopper of a number.”
“But he didn’t take all of your powers,” said Gwen.
“No. That he didn’t. Some say it’s bad luck to empty another’s magic stores, but I think he did it for spite.”
Gwen tried to control the urge to shake the purple mass before her. “What powers do you have?” she said instead.
“I can make shadow puppets. That’s it,” said Huzzah, looking downcast. “Oh, and find things.”
“Puppets?” said Hero, and “Find things?” said Gwen at the same time. Huzzah grunted and floated across the cellar; had he had legs, it would have been called ‘pacing’.
“Come on, give me some commands already.”
Hero and Gwen stared at him as if he’d started flashing neon. Then Gwen remembered the small but important detail regarding cellars and plumbing.
“Could you find us a way out, perhaps?” she ventured.
“Is that a suggestion, young lady, or a command?”
“Er.”
“Command,” said Hero. Then he nudged Gwen with his elbow and whispered, “Think he might be insulted if we don’t treat him like a full genie.”
“Very well, I will find you a way out.” Huzzah floated around the room for a few moments, poking a misty finger into nooks and a drifting nose into crannies, then gave a grunt of satisfaction. He floated back before the sofa and said, looking down at them through the purple haze of his nose, “Are you two idiots?” With that, he turned and drifted out the window. The two stared at the last few wisps of purple in shock.
“What’s wrong with this way out?” asked Huzzah, floating back in through the wall.
Hero snapped his mouth shut over a half-uttered curse. Huzzah floated closer and began to drift his hand through his lamp, like a villain might run his finger through a candle’s flame. “We can’t go through there. For one thing, it’s too small. Also, we don’t quite fancy a broken, well, anything.”
Huzzah and Gwen stared at him like he’d turned neon.
“Why would we break anything?” said Gwen.
“A fall from that height?”
“Hero. I have one word for you. And that word is ‘cellar’.”
“And if I might add a word, it would be ‘idiot’,” said Huzzah.
“But he’s right,” said Gwen, “in a way.” She walked towards the window. “Not because of the window itself, though, but because of where we’d be once outside.”
The three huddled together and stared outside at the small patio Vicky had built at the center of his mansion. Through the gaps in the dying rose-bush, they could see the lawn and the surrounding high wall. Seeing the oak tree with sofa (the one bearing a shovel, wheelbarrow, and garden gnome, not that there was any other on the premises), Gwen realized they were at the foot of the tower she’d seen from the living room. Walking morosely in the patio was Clyde the Camel. The three winced as Clyde stumbled into one of the numerous holes that speckled the lawn.
“Ah,” said Huzzah, “what you need, then, is transportation.”
After a brief stroll about the room, searching for anything that would help the pair break open the door, they began exploring the villain’s various collections. By then dusk was well on its way into night, and the room began to return to its original oily darkness.
While Gwen rummaged through a pile of old candles, searching for matches, Hero sat on the lumpy sofa and shivered. Soon Gwen joined him on the sofa, where she continued to rummage through various lamps and flashlights. She handed a few to Hero, though he was much too focused on the intensifying darkness.
Having finished rummaging though her own pile, Gwen glanced at Hero’s.
“Oh, it can’t be…”
“What!” shrieked Hero, inching further into the sofa’s mouldy cushions, arms hugging his knees to his chest.
“That lamp. Hand it over.”
“Lamp,” whimpered Hero, with a single syllable putting all withdrawal sufferers to shame with his desperate plea and veneration.
“Hero? Hand it over,” repeated Gwen. “That thing there. By you foot.” At Hero’s incredulous gaze, she reached over for it. “Why do I bother?”
Gwen stared at the old-style oil lamp, thinking about the bizarre turn her life had taken since Hero’d waltzed into her life and settled into her apartment, “just till Vicky and I sort this whole damsel thing out,” he’d said. She thought about ridiculously named villains, their equally strange entourage, and their skewed plans.
Then she cheerfully rubbed the lamp in her hands from end to end, lifting it up with a flourish and a “huzzah!”
Gwen had never seen ectoplasm before, but she was willing to bet Hero’s head that what was coming out of the lamp was very like ectoplasm. Only purple.
“Yes, I am Huzzah. How may I help you?”
Both Gwen and Hero sat rigid on the dusty sofa. Before them billowed a translucent cloud of purple shaped vaguely like a plump Englishman. There were definite hints of tweed.
“Well?” said the figure, drifting its arms towards its hips. “Were you knocking or did you just decide to give the lamp a polish?” The specter cast a purple glow about it, illuminating the room somewhat.
“…o,” said Hero. He sat up and tried again. “Hello. Um… What are you?” And, because this was the Dungeon of Scary Things and it always serves to be polite, he added, “Mr. Purple Floaty Thing, sir.”
“I am Huzzah,” it replied. The pair before him failed to scream. “Huzzah? The Great Huzzah? The Billowing Cloud of Terror? He Who Floats Among Us?”
The pair shook their heads.
“The Really Big and Powerful Magician That Floats Before You and Deserves Some Bloody Respect?”
“Sorry, no,” said Hero.
“Oh. Well, you might also know me as The Plague of Tea Fields. No? Oh bugger it all. I’m the genie in the lamp. Not the genie, but for you mortals it’s all one and the same. You can call me Huzzah, like I’ve said.”
“Hello, Huzzah,” said Hero and Gwen in unison.
“So… Being a genie and having magical powers—” began Gwen.
“Some magical powers,” corrected Huzzah. You’ve got to order them from Magic Express. They’re really slow in coming too.”
“You mail order you powers?” said Hero, upset that all he ever got by mail order was an incomplete Hero’s Manual.
“Of course. Although the new powers – say, turning a pigeon blue – only come into market every few years.”
“Why’s that?” said Hero.
“That’s when the original owner, some poor sod of a magician, has ‘left the scene’, shall we say.”
“What does a magician’s retirement have to do with Magic Express’ stock of powers?”
“Every time a magician is born, he’s got one particular power. That can either be a new power, like the blue pigeon example I’ve given, or an old power no genie has taken for himself. Throughout our careers, magicians and genies struggle to collect as many powers as we can, often from each other.”
“So what powers do you have?” said Gwen, suddenly realizing that basements do not come equipped with bathrooms. She really wanted to find a way out of the basement now.
“Well… Not many.” At Hero and Gwen’s sudden frowns, Huzzah clarified. “I used to have a quite a number of them, you know. I could do all sorts of things, like changing the shape of small animals, conjuring up water balloons – and before you say anything, I didn’t have a lot of money when I ordered my first batch of powers, so could only choose from the children’s section.”
“But you can’t do that sort of thing now?” said Hero.
“No, because one bastard took them. He took the ones he liked, left me purple, and gave me this lamp for my pains. And do you know how many powers he had?” Huzzah took a deep breath trying to contain himself. “A thousand and one. One Thousand. And one. Listen, I may be immortal and live in a lamp, but that is still one whopper of a number.”
“But he didn’t take all of your powers,” said Gwen.
“No. That he didn’t. Some say it’s bad luck to empty another’s magic stores, but I think he did it for spite.”
Gwen tried to control the urge to shake the purple mass before her. “What powers do you have?” she said instead.
“I can make shadow puppets. That’s it,” said Huzzah, looking downcast. “Oh, and find things.”
“Puppets?” said Hero, and “Find things?” said Gwen at the same time. Huzzah grunted and floated across the cellar; had he had legs, it would have been called ‘pacing’.
“Come on, give me some commands already.”
Hero and Gwen stared at him as if he’d started flashing neon. Then Gwen remembered the small but important detail regarding cellars and plumbing.
“Could you find us a way out, perhaps?” she ventured.
“Is that a suggestion, young lady, or a command?”
“Er.”
“Command,” said Hero. Then he nudged Gwen with his elbow and whispered, “Think he might be insulted if we don’t treat him like a full genie.”
“Very well, I will find you a way out.” Huzzah floated around the room for a few moments, poking a misty finger into nooks and a drifting nose into crannies, then gave a grunt of satisfaction. He floated back before the sofa and said, looking down at them through the purple haze of his nose, “Are you two idiots?” With that, he turned and drifted out the window. The two stared at the last few wisps of purple in shock.
“What’s wrong with this way out?” asked Huzzah, floating back in through the wall.
Hero snapped his mouth shut over a half-uttered curse. Huzzah floated closer and began to drift his hand through his lamp, like a villain might run his finger through a candle’s flame. “We can’t go through there. For one thing, it’s too small. Also, we don’t quite fancy a broken, well, anything.”
Huzzah and Gwen stared at him like he’d turned neon.
“Why would we break anything?” said Gwen.
“A fall from that height?”
“Hero. I have one word for you. And that word is ‘cellar’.”
“And if I might add a word, it would be ‘idiot’,” said Huzzah.
“But he’s right,” said Gwen, “in a way.” She walked towards the window. “Not because of the window itself, though, but because of where we’d be once outside.”
The three huddled together and stared outside at the small patio Vicky had built at the center of his mansion. Through the gaps in the dying rose-bush, they could see the lawn and the surrounding high wall. Seeing the oak tree with sofa (the one bearing a shovel, wheelbarrow, and garden gnome, not that there was any other on the premises), Gwen realized they were at the foot of the tower she’d seen from the living room. Walking morosely in the patio was Clyde the Camel. The three winced as Clyde stumbled into one of the numerous holes that speckled the lawn.
“Ah,” said Huzzah, “what you need, then, is transportation.”