His second was, Why aren’t I dead?
A man with long, tangled black hair and a full beard streaked with purple dye stood next to a woman with her hair braided in tight beaded rows tipped with tiny bells. Both wore gold earrings and neck chains and sported matching face-painted roses framed in red hearts. They were staring at Abernathy in disbelief.
“Hey, man, that was awesome!” the man declared reverently. “How did you do that?”
“Was it some sort of magic?” the woman asked.
Abernathy had no idea what they were talking about. But he could understand them, and that was as mystifying as being able to read the signs. He looked around in confusion. Music rose from all about, mingling with shouts and laughter. The walkways ran past large stone buildings and pavilions jammed with people. The buildings did not look familiar—and yet they did. The music was of all sorts, none of it immediately recognizable. It was loud and decidedly discordant. One group of musicians occupied a stage that had been erected across the pavilion on the far side of the fountain. The music they played was raucous and amplified so that it sounded as if it were coming out of the air itself. Flags and pennants and streamers flew at every turn. People were dancing and singing. There was something going on everywhere you looked.
“Hey, that’s not your whole act, is it?” the man with the purple-streaked beard was asking.
“C’mon, do something more!” his companion pressed.
Abernathy smiled and shrugged, wishing the man and woman would go away. What was going on here, anyway? He wasn’t dead, obviously. So what had happened to him? He ran his hands over his body experimentally, checking for damage. Nothing seemed out of place. Two arms, two legs, a body, fingers, and toes—he could feel them inside his boots. All present and accounted for. He ran his fingers through his hair, smoothing it back. He rubbed his chin and found that he could use a shave. He adjusted his glasses on his nose. He seemed to be all right.
He turned the other way then and found himself face to face with Questor Thews. The wizard was staring at him. He was staring at him as if he had never seen him before in his life.
“Questor Thews, are you all right?” he asked anxiously. “Whatever in the world is going on?”
Questor’s mouth opened, but no words came out.
Abernathy was immediately irritated. “Wizard, what is the matter with you? Has the witch’s magic rendered you speechless? Stop looking at me like that!”
The other’s gaunt arm lifted as if to ward off a ghost. “Abernathy?” he asked in obvious disbelief.
“Yes, of course. Who else?” Abernathy snapped. Then he realized that something was seriously wrong with the other man. It was in his eyes, the sound of his voice, the way he seemed unable to accept the obvious, not even recognizing his oldest friend, for goodness’ sake. Shock, perhaps. “Questor Thews, would you like to lie down for a moment?” he asked gently. “Would you like me to bring you some water or a glass of ale?”
The wizard stared a moment longer, then quickly shook his head. “No, it’s not… it’s… I’m all right, really, but you…” He stopped, clearly perplexed. “Abernathy,” he said quietly. “What has happened to you?”
Now it was Abernathy’s turn to stare. Happened to him? He looked down at himself once more. Same body, arms, legs, familiar clothing, everything in place. He looked back at the other, shaking his head in confusion. “What are you talking about?” He had to speak loudly to be heard over the music.
The gaunt, white-bearded face underwent a truly incredible series of contortions. “You’ve… you’ve changed back! Look at yourself! You’re not a dog anymore!”
Not a dog… Abernathy started to laugh, then stopped, remembering. That was right—he was a dog! He was a soft-coated Wheaten Terrier, made so by Questor Thews when the old King’s spiteful son, Michel Ard Rhi, had sought to do him serious harm, then left that way because Questor could not change him back again.
Yes, a dog.
Except, he realized suddenly, shockingly, he wasn’t a dog anymore. He was a man again!