Authors: Alan Dean Foster
“
Oi
.” Turning from the green glass sea, the otter sat down on the deck, his back against the rail. “I ain't sure I remember this mornin'.”
“Just as well. I'll spare you the pain of reminiscing. Just don't do it again.”
Mudge blinked. “'Ow can I avoid doin' it again if I can't remember wot it was I did?”
“I'll be there to let you know.”
“Oh, right.” The otter rose shakily. “Now if you'll excuse me a minim, I'm afraid I 'ave to do me part to contribute to the fecundity o' this particular ocean.” So saying, he proceeded to toss the contents of his stomach over the stern, a process accompanied by much retching and gagging.
“Do you ssee that?” The lynx straightened an earring which had twisted around to tickle her inner ear. “What a dissgussting exhibition.”
“quite,” added Quiquell.
Ansibette blew on the nails of her right hand to speed the drying of the elaborately applied polish. “And to think that's what we have to depend on to return us home.”
“We are not entirely dependent.” They turned to see Aleaukauna neatly coiling a line around one shoulder. “We must not be afraid to rely on our own resources.”
“Why? Your soldiers appear competent enough.”
The mongoose princess regarded the Lieutenant and his troops fondly. “Yes, they have done well. For representatives of the lower ranks. They did find us, after all, and free us from the grasp of that unspeakable Manzai person.”
“With the aid of the spellsinger,” Umagi hastened to add.
“Yes, the spellsinger.” Ansibette turned to gaze back at Jon-Tom, who continued to steer the boat, wholly oblivious to the attention he was receiving. “Don't you think he's sort of handsome? In a rough, unsophisticated way, of course.”
Seshenshe made a face. “I'll never undersstand what you humanss ssee in one another. All that cold, bald sskin.” She shuddered slightly.
“not a decent claw on hand or foot.” Quiquell flexed her own two-inch spikes.
“And those flat faces,” added Aleaukauna. “Kissing must be more of a collision than a coming together.”
“We manage quite well enough, thank you.” Ansibette defended her tribe without a trace of self-consciousness.
“I'm just glad I'm not human.” Pivver sniffed through her whiskers.
A powerful shape loomed over them. “What's all this?” Umagi of Tuuro put a heavy arm around Ansibette's shoulders. “I know humans are lacking in fur, but that should make the rest of us all the more sympathetic toward them. And they
are
simian.” The heavy brow turned toward Aleaukauna. “Furthermore, I'll have you know that there are certain definite advantages to a flat face.”
“Is that so? I fail to see how anyone can count the absence of a proper muzzle as a plus.”
Encompassing the virtues of snouts, pelts, muzzles, and various other physical accoutrements, the argument ragedâpolitely, of course, lest anyone forget their station. It forced Mudge, desperate for a little peace and quiet, to choose between the top of the mast or the bottom of the bilge. In the end he stayed where he was. His vaunted balance had deserted him, which ruled out sequestering himself in the crow's nest, and the condition of his stomach, which at present had elected to retreat to a locale somewhere between his esophagus and his lungs, inspired him to remain as far as possible from the undelectable aromas arising from the craft's musty interior.
Aided by a favoring (and perhaps sympathetic) breeze, they continued to make excellent progress southward.
A week had passed when the storm loomed on that chosen horizon. From his position behind the wheel, Naike beckoned Jon-Tom to join him. The sea had grown irritable and he knew from experience what the open ocean could be like on an off day.
“What do you think?” He gestured forward. The squall line extended as far as the eye could see, a threatening rampart of advancing gray-black. “We'll have to get around it somehow. Port or starboard?” His small but strong hands waited expectantly on the wheel.
“Why ask me?” Jon-Tom scrutinized the ominous clouds worriedly. A flash of lightning briefly illuminated the storm's sooty underbelly, turning one boiling Vulcansberg the color of polished antimony. “I'm no mariner. I've only traveled the seas as a passenger.”
Naike nervously scratched the short beige-colored fur of his forehead. “Perhaps you could calm the storm with a spell-song, or at least conjure the most promising heading.”
“It doesn't work that way. I'm much better at calling up specific objects or shapes. I've never tackled anything as substantial as the weather. I'd as like sink us as save us.”
“This craft is sturdy but not large, and we are not exactly the most experienced of crews. We have some time before the weather will be upon us. Can you not think of anything?”
Jon-Tom equivocated. “No harm in thinking.” Something chimed at his shoulder.
Hovering near enough to warm his face, the chord cloud was singing restively. It was astonishing, he thought, how the same melody could communicate so many different emotions merely by varying tempo and volume.
Naike looked on in wonderment. “I know nothing of matters mystic, but file my teeth if I don't think it's trying to tell you something.”
“It does seem anxious, doesn't it?” The pulsating motes swirled inches from his eyes. “What are you trying to say?”
Seeming to respond, the cloud became an attenuated pink streak as it darted forward. Pausing above the rolling sea several points to starboard, it hovered there and sang out as loudly as it could. As Jon-Tom and Naike looked on, it repeated the action several times. It was a gesture the spellsinger knew well by now.
“What is it doing?” The mongoose gripped the wheel firmly, waiting.
“Suggesting a course. I suppose we might as well follow. Unless you've a better idea.”
“As I have told you, spellsinger, I am no more than an amateur mariner.” So saying, the Lieutenant swung the wheel hard over, bringing the bow around. “You have confidence in this heading?”
“No, but I've always had confidence in music. If we continue on the way we've been going we'll run smack into that storm for sure. If this direction's no better, we'll have done no worse. And maybe, just maybe, the music knows what it's about.
I
certainly don't.”
The chords became a helix, then an ovoid. Each time it changed shape it altered tempo. In one thing only it did not vary: its chosen course.
Umagi was leaning on the portside railing, contemplating the surface of the sea, when a silvered mist crystallized in the air only a few yards from her face. Exclaiming in surprise, she stumbled back from the apparition. Jon-Tom saw that she had worked the fur on the back of her head and neck into a mass of tiny, intricate spitcurls. On the princess of Tuuro the effect was incongruously petite.
Materializing in the middle of the mist and hovering at deck level was the remarkable insectlike being they had encountered previously. He stared straight at Jon-Tom.
“Hi, you thereâhuman! I remember what it was!”
“What what was?” Jon-Tom felt unaccountably foolish.
“What I've been searching for!” Antennae dipped forward. “Memory is such a feeble thing.”
Mudge rested an arm on the rail and spoke casually. “Are you aware, guv, that at the moment there's a fair space o' nothin' but air between your sit-upon and the sea?”
“The sea? What are you talking about?” Glancing down between its forefeet, the creature emitted a high-pitched whine of surprise and promptly plummeted into the waves, landing with an impressive splash.
“It must have intended to appear on deck,” observed Naike thoughtfully. “Then we made that sharp turn to starboard.”
Jon-Tom wasn't paying attention to the Lieutenant. He'd rushed to the railing. Their visitor was flopping about helplessly on the surface. Despite the presence of eight limbs, it appeared to know nothing of swimming.
“I remember!” it sputtered. “I remember!”
Cupping his hands to his mouth, Jon-Tom shouted back, “What do you remember?”
“I remember that ⦠I can't swim!” It was a piteous declaration, voiced as the narrow head was swamped by a modest wave. Jon-Tom started to remove his cloak and shirt. When the creature bobbed back to the surface, he could see it fumbling with the controls set into the pack on its back. Once more it was enveloped in mist, this time in the form of a silvery lambence that was so bright he was forced to turn away, as if a hundred camera flashes had gone off in his face at the same time. Caught by surprise, the princesses cried out and rubbed at their eyes.
Peering through tears, Jon-Tom noted the presence of a neat, spherical hole in the ocean, as if someone had taken a perfect scoop out of a bowl of deep green ice cream. A couple of mackerel swam into the hole, found themselves flopping frantically as they fell, and vanished into the bottom of the aqueous excavation. Then the smooth, curving walls collapsed and the sea flowed on over the place as if it had never been disturbed.
“A divertin' if futile performance.” Mudge had moved to join his friend. “Personal-like, I'm less than impressed by 'is flavor o' magic.”
“I don't think it's magic he's employing, Mudge. I think it's science.”
“Magic, science, 'tis only in the spellin' o' it. So to speak. Think 'e'll try again? 'E wants somethin' o' us, that's for sure.”
“Mudge, I'm as baffled as you are.”
“Now that's where you're wrong, mate. You're more baffled than me. Tis an inherent an' inheritable condition.”
The spellsinger passed on the offer to exchange insults. “Right now all I'm interested in is outrunning or flanking this storm.” He nodded toward the advancing line of threatening black clouds as Naike continued to follow the lead of the singing chords. Was that lightning off to the west, in the direction they were taking? He couldn't tell.
“How're you feeling?”
“Wot, me?” Reaching up, the otter flicked the brim of his cap. “Optimal as always, mate. I would like to know one thing, though.”
“What?”
“Did I 'ave a good time?”
“Not particularly.”
“Pity.” The otter took a deep breath and put a paw over his chest. “Well, I feel wonderful now. So the ladies 'ave always told me.” He pivoted to scrutinize the deck. The princesses were gathered around the mast, chatting and assisting each other, while the mongoose soldiers attended to the operation of the ship.
“Things'll run smooth from now on, you'll see. All we 'ave to worry about is bein' bombed by a forgetful giant bug from otherwhere. Methinks we can cope with that, don't you know.” He was beaming. It was an utterly infectious and irresistible smile, one which Jon-Tom knew well. One could not help but smile back at a grinning otter.
The storm fell upon them with all the suddenness and fury of a female who'd been dieting for six months only to discover that she'd gained four pounds. It was impossible even to light the ship's lamps so they could find their way about belowdecks. Not that lamps were really necessary. The rolling barrage of lightning strobed sea and ship mercilessly, illuminating more than anyone wanted to see.
Dry as it was below, the rocking and heaving rendered the temporary haven untenable for any length of time, forcing the princesses to alternate between being soaked and queasy. A fortune in sodden silks and chiffon clung to them as they took turns traversing the single stairway.
It required the full attention of the six males aboard to keep their craft stable and upright, with Aleaukauna and Pivver assisting where they could. Unforgiving wind shredded the spinnaker before it could be furled, but they did succeed in reefing the mainsail.
Hewing close to their chosen course required all of Jon-Tom and Naike's strength, the human clinging to one side of the wheel and the mongoose to the other. At least they had no trouble seeing their guide. Glowing softly just forward of the bowsprit and apparently unaffected by the tempest, the cloud of music led them on. It might have been his imagination, spurred by lightning and clouded by driving rain, but Jon-Tom could have sworn that it was chiming in time to the thunder. He could only wonder what conditions were like at the center of the storm, whence they had originally been headed.
The waves rose so high that their crests overtopped the mast, but the sturdy little craft climbed each wall of water and slid down the opposite side like a plangent dream. Each time one of the green monsters bore down on them, Jon-Tom was certain they would be swamped. Each time the boat responded by sliding up the breaking crest as nimbly as a spider on a rock. Better in such circumstances for a ship to be buoyant, he thought grimly, than beautiful.
Her mast swayed and her timbers groaned, but she didn't crack. Seeming almost frustrated, the seas redoubled their fury. Jon-Tom worried more about the rudder than the mast. If they lost steering, the boat would swing broadside into the advancing waves and they'd capsize for sure. But the rudder, fashioned of tough swamp
surrow,
remained unsplintered on its pivot.
In the midst of lightning and thunder, screaming wind and stinging rain, Mudge could be seen strolling nonchalantly about the deck, whistling to himself and seemingly oblivious to the prospect of imminent destruction. He'd divested himself of his gear and stowed it safely below. Rain slicked his fur, imparting to his coat a natural sheen Jon-Tom could only envy.
Noticing his friend's stare, the otter put his hands to his mouth and called out, “Ain't this excitin', mate! Wot a ride!”
Jon-Tom wiped salt spray from his eyes. “Oh, it's exciting, all right. How about you share some of the excitement by coming up here and giving us a hand?”
The otter shook his head. “Wouldn't think o' spoilin' your fun, Jommy-Tin. Why don't you ask Umagi? She'd be o' more use than modest-sized me.”