Witches’ Brew by Terry Brooks

For both of us, Abernathy thought dismally. He looked down at himself, at his real self, his restored self, and thought for a moment what it would mean to be a dog again. He pictured himself anew as the shaggy-haired, clumsy, laughable creature he had been. He imagined himself trapped inside that alien body, struggling to keep his dignity, fighting every single day of his life to convince those surrounding him that he was as human as they were. How could anyone expect him to make such a sacrifice? This was the trade-off for returning to Landover? But he knew it was more than that. It was the trade-off for being alive. Had the mysterious magic not intervened, he would be dead. Nightshade would have put an end to him. To the both of them. And Questor Thews was undoubtedly right, as much as it pained him to admit it. His transformation from a dog back into a man had had a purpose, and the only purpose that made any sense was the one the wizard had revealed after studying the book of magic.

So he could stay or he could go. The choice was his. Questor would not attempt to persuade him either way. The wizard had to live with his own demons in this matter. It was being left to Abernathy to decide. If he rejected the transformation, he was stuck here. Good and bad in that, he supposed. It didn’t need detailing. Of course, High Lord Ben Holiday was stuck as well; there would be no help from this end. On the other hand, if he allowed Questor to invoke the magic, he would presumably return in time to help the High Lord. But would he, in fact? Was there some real purpose to be served in going back, or would matters run their course whether he returned or not? If only he knew. It was one thing if by returning he would help save the High Lord and his family from Rydall and Nightshade. It was another if his return would make no difference at all.

He glanced toward the house. Mrs. Ambaum was looking out the window at them, sipping contentedly at her tea. Retribution by nightfall, she was thinking. Still no sign of Elizabeth. Beyond, where the road curved past the front yard and disappeared over a rise, the sunlight was a hazy curtain through the trees.

He walked back to Questor Thews and stopped in front of him, eyes fixed on the worn old face. “I really don’t think I can do this,” he said quietly.

The wizard nodded, face scrunched into a mass of wrinkles. “I don’t blame you.”

Abernathy held out his hands and looked at them. He shook his head. “Do you even remember the magic you used to change me that first time?”

Questor did not look up but nodded that he did.

“After so many years. Isn’t that something?” Abernathy looked down at himself. He hadn’t been changed back all that long, and already he was comfortable with himself in his old skin. “I like myself as I am,” he whispered.

Elizabeth appeared in the doorway. “Breakfast!”

Neither moved. Then Questor waved. “We’ll be there directly!” he called. He looked at Abernathy. “I am truly sorry.”

Abernathy smiled ruefully. “Of course you are.”

“I would give anything not to have to tell you this, anything not to have it so.” He bit at his lip.

“If it isn’t so, for the sake of argument,” Abernathy mused, “I will be trapped here not as a man but as a dog.”

Questor Thews nodded, holding his gaze this time.

“But it is so. You’re sure. As sure as you can be, aren’t you?”

The wizard nodded once more, didn’t speak.

“I have to make up my mind about this right away, don’t I?” Abernathy pressed on reluctantly. “If we are to be of any use to the High Lord and Mistaya, we have to get back quickly. There isn’t time to give this a lot of thought.”

“No, I’m afraid there isn’t.”

“Why don’t you argue the matter with me, then?”

“Argue with you?”

“Convince me, one way or the other. You choose a side. Argue both ways if you like. But give me some issues I can debate. Give me something to dispute. Give me a voice besides my own to listen to!”