RS01. The Reluctant Sorcerer by Simon Hawke Read Free Book Online

little bush scuttled backward a few feet, its leaves trembling once again.
    “Ah, so you’re up then,” Mick said. He picked up a straw broom from the comer and urged the little bush away. “Go on now, off with you! Go on, get! Stop annoying the company, you foolish thing, you!” Bewildered, Brewster watched as the little red-gold bush retreated from the broom wielded by the little man. “What is it?” he asked, astonished.
    “What, this useless thing?” Mick jerked his head toward the bush, now cowering uncertainly in a comer, its leaves trembling violently. “Why, ‘tis a peregrine bush. Doc.” “A peregrine bush?” “Aye, you’ll recall I was tellin’ you last night how y’have to chase the damn things down to make the brew? Peregrine wine, I call it.” The bush started to tremble even more violently.
    “Oh, calm down, you silly thing,” Mick snapped at it. “I’m not for cookin’ you up yet, though if you don’t behave yourself, I just might toss you in the pot for good measure.” He turned to Brewster. “Wouldn’t do much good, really. This one’s still too immature. Make the wine taste bitter and it wouldn’t be nearly so potent, y’see.” Brewster rubbed his head. “It seemed pretty potent last night,” he said, though strangely, he didn’t have anything resembling a hangover. Only a slight bump on his head he must have got from falling over. Just the same, that one swallow had been enough to paralyze him.
    “Ah, well, it takes some gettin’ used to,” Mick explained.
    “I’ve never heard of a bush that could move,” said Brewster, “except for tumbleweeds, and they’re blown by the wind.” “Are they, now?” said Mick. “Well, I’ve never heard of these tumbleweeds myself, but there’s more peregrine bushes than you can shake a stick at in these parts. Most of the time, they just stay planted in the soil, as any decent, self-respectin’ shrub should do, but sometimes they just uproot themselves and take to wanderin’ about. Every year around this time, they pull up their roots and start travelin’ like a great big thorny herd, from Bimam Wood all the way to Dunsinane Hill. Faith, and I don’t know why. They just do, that’s all. Bimam to Dunsinane, Dunsinane to Bimam, back and forth, like a bloody, great ambulatory hedge. Like enough to drive you mad, and there’s no tumin’ ‘em. You get yourself caught in their path and you’re liable to get sliced to ribbons.” “That’s incredible,” said Brewster. “I’ve never heard of such a thing! Migratory bushes!’ “Aye, silly, isn’t it? But there you have it. This one’s just a wee sprout. I keep it about to amuse me, and so’s I can learn a bit about their habits, the better to catch ‘em when their roots are ripe, y’see. But it’s a bloody stupid thing. Harmless, really, but always gettin’ underfoot. Still, it kind of grows on you. Grows on you! That’s a good one, eh? Grows on you!” Mick cackled and slapped his muscular thigh.
    Brewster eyed the little thorn bush apprehensively. Its leaves seemed to be drooping dejectedly.
    “I don’t seem to remember very much about last night,” he said. “Did you bring me here?” “Aye, that I did, after you passed out. Never did see it hit anyone quite so hard before, but I suppose if you’re not used to it, the wine can have a bit of a kick.” “I’ll say,” said Brewster.
    “You’ll say what?” asked Mick.
    “That it can have a bit of a kick,” said Brewster. “Strange, though, I feel particularly refreshed this morning.” “It has that effect on you,” Mick replied, nodding. “You have to be careful, though. Drink enough of the stuff and you’ll want to be takin’ on an army all by yourself. The brigands buy it from me by the cartload, they do. Use up just about every batch I brew each year. Drink so much of it, they’re all a bit touched in the head.” Mick tapped his cranium for emphasis.
    “Brigands,” Brewster repeated.