Authors: Alan Dean Foster
Choosing his footing carefully as he resumed the climb, Jon-Tom found that the voice was making him sweat. It didn't merely grate; it abraded, it corroded, it made one pray to be struck temporarily deaf. Jon-Tom would far rather have been subjected to a concert by a choir of tone-deaf banshees.
“
Wonnnnn't you be my bayyyy-beeee!
” it bawled like the voice of Hell itself. No, Jon-Tom decided. Not even Hades could tolerate such pandemonium. Compared to that voice, Jon-Tom knew he sounded like Caruso. Or at least Daltrey.
Mudge's fur had fluffed up like a spooked cat's. “Bloody 'ell but I'm grateful me ears are as small as they are! 'Tis a sound not o' this world.”
“Actually, I think Hieronymus is from near Stuyvesant Town,” Gathers informed them. “Hard to believe such gibbering could come from a human throat.” Jon-Tom swallowed hard.
“Can you imagine try in' to make a recording with that as your lead?” Gathers brushed at his long locks. “I sort of think of it as the human equivalent of all those new electronic rodent repellers.”
When the unearthly singing resumed it was backed by unidentifiable vocals and instrumentals only half as hideous as the lead itself. From what Jon-Tom could hear they were adequately gruesome in their own right. Though it was something of a strain just to form words while being subjected to the dissonant barrage, he forced himself to shut out much of the demonic doo-wop.
“What's all the rest of it?” he asked Gathers.
“I told you. Hieronymus isn't alone.”
“Well,” he muttered stubbornly, “it's only music.”
“He's got to be stopped,” Zimmerman exclaimed.
The band members accompanied them for another hundred feet or so before Gathers finally had to halt. He'd been slinging his head for the past several minutes, as if an angry wasp had become lodged in his ear. His expression was wretched.
“We can't go any farther, spellsinger. You've got to understand, we've had to listen to this stuff every day for weeks.”
“Months.” By now even the phlegmatic Hill was covering his ears.
“Eons.” Zimmerman's eyes were seeping badly. “Never thought I'd hear anything that'd make industrial grunge sound sweet. Hieronymus makes a construction site sound like the Philharmonic.”
Gathers nodded agreement. “Compared to him, thrash is
The Lark Ascending.
”
Jon-Tom frowned uncertainly. “I don't know that piece. Smashing Pumpkins?”
Gathers shook his head. “Vaughan Williams. I spent a year at Juilliard. Liked the music, couldn't stand the people. We're gonna have to leave you here.”
Zimmerman nodded vigorously. “If I get any closer to the source, my head's gonna split.”
“That's all right,” Jon-Tom assured them. “We understand.”
“We does?” Mudge was less forbearing.
Leaving the duo with handshakes and words of encouragement, the three band members turned and started back down. Rocks and pebbles skidded beneath their feet as they hastened to retreat.
“Not the best o' omens, mate.”
“It was brave of them to accompany us this far.” Turning, Jon-Tom resumed the climb. “Besides, you heard what they said before. They've tried to stop this Hinckel and failed. Now it's up to us.” The black cloud and its resident thunder closed in suffocatingly around them.
Gasping for air, they eventually emerged onto a small plateau. Off in the distance a few sharp spires rose still higher. Between the edge of the stony, sheared-off platform on which they stood and the remaining crags squatted a turreted castle constructed of gray gloom that was an ill-conceived parody of every medieval fortress which had ever been built to satisfy a deranged nobleman.
It was actually fashioned of the same brooding basalt as the mountain, the building blocks torn from the ragged flanks of the great volcano. The upper levels commanded a sweeping view of the sea where it showed beyond the fringes of the all-encompassing black cloud. There was an entrance with a drawbridge and portcullis but no moat. An inner keep glistened with lingering dew.
Jon-Tom was thankful no architect was in their company, for merely gazing upon the ramshackle structure was enough to turn a professional's stomach. Walls canted crazily at impossible angles. None of the parapets was level, none of the turrets perpendicular to the ground. The central keep wasn't in much better shape. Dark banners flew from the apex of each turret as well as from the higher interior. As he studied his and Mudge's dismal destination, Jon-Tom had the feeling that the weight of the stone was all that kept the edifice from collapsing.
Of life there was no sign save for the occasional tooth-grating hubbub which emanated from somewhere within.
“The venue fits the music,” Mudge commented grimly.
With an absent nod, Jon-Tom turned to take a last look behind them. Below lay the blighted rain forest. Farther on he could see the rocky shoreline with their boat and its cargo of displaced femininity. Beyond lay the ocean, clean and inviting, spacious and alive with the promise of distant welcomes. Even at their present altitude he thought he could make out the periodic spouts of the many cetaceans who had gathered around the island. Songless cetaceans, he reminded himself.
Taking a deep breath as if he could somehow inhale resolve, he brought the duar around to his front. His fingers weren't as nimble as they'd once been, his lung power not as long-lasting. He'd traded them in for experience, all of which he had the feeling he was going to need.
“Let's go.”
“Right with you as always, mate.” So saying, the otter accompanied his friend onward, keeping the usual couple of discreet steps behind.
Together they entered the castle.
THE DRAWBRIDGE WAS DOWN
, the sullen iron portcullis raised. As they ambled in, not even an ant appeared to challenge their advance.
“Not much security.” Mudge scanned the parapets in expectation of ambush. None was forthcoming.
As they passed into the great hall of the keep, they encountered sculptures and paintings man and otter did their best to ignore. Like the heinous music, the decor grated on the senses. From what they could see, the castle's master had all the aesthetic sensibility of a banana slug. Execrably executed black velvet portraits of unrecognizable musicians lined opposing walls.
“All 'umans,” Mudge observed of the pictures. “Leastwise, I think they are. The bleedin' work is so bad 'tis difficult sometimes to tell. I've eaten clams that could paint better.”
“Clams have no hands,” Jon-Tom pointed out.
“I rest me case, mate.”
They were approaching the back of the hall. The poorly woven yellow and brown carpet across which they were striding ended at the base of a throne. Constructed of solid five-carat gold, it was embellished with musical motifs.
Seated atop a cotton cushion several days shy of a desperately needed washing and cradling an electric guitar was a skinny, chicken-pox-scarred figure. It wore artificially and imperfectly faded jeans, sneakers that looked superficially costly but were in reality rejects from a Kmart blue-light special, a fraying, cut-open-to-the-lint-filled-navel sweatshirt from which the improperly appliqued cartoon characters were already peeling, and a backward-turned unauthorized navy blue L.A. Raiders baseball cap which had been produced on the cheap in Hong Kong. The pirate in the emblem had a distinctly oriental aspect.
One hand rested lazily on the guitar while the other picked at a huge rhinestone-encrusted golden bowl piled high with french fries drowning in ketchup. The body was all fish-white flesh and uncoordination, the face narrow and pinched. Brown eyes were framed by a greasy mat of black hair. It reminded Jon-Tom of a portrait he'd once seen of a sour-visaged Ichabod Crane, in the cheap edition. Try as he might, he could find nothing about the individual seated before them that was in the least appealing.
Wiping a mushy fragment of french fry from the corner of his mouth, the figure stiffened as it caught sight of them. The piece of potato tumbled to the floor, there to join a small but growing mound of deceased cousins. Hard to believe a healthy tuber had sacrificed its life for such a fate.
While noting that no cord trailed from the guitar, Jon-Tom knew from the wailing they'd heard that it had to be plugged into
something.
Sorcery could provide a suitable substitute for a socket. Professionally, he found himself wondering if it was AC or DC sorcery.
An unpleasant sound rumbled in the pit of the scrawny figure's belly. “Who the hell are you and how did you get up here?” It was the shrill voice of a dyspeptic crow, concerned but not panicky.
The weight of the duar was reassuring. Mudge stood ready at his side (well, a few paces behind). Thunder boomed outside the entrance to the castle. It had been a long time since he'd confronted a situation this intense. What if he'd lost it? This wasn't sitting around the fire, entertaining family and friends while cubs played in the background. There was much at stake here, not least perhaps their own lives.
What if this time his gift for lyrical invention failed? Or his strength, or his fingering? What if⦠?
Don't borrow trouble, Talea was always telling him. Plenty will find you of its own accord.
“We walked,” he told the skinny musician.
Hieronymus Hinckel's gaze fastened on the duar. “You a musician, too?”
No elaborate insults, no grandstanding cursing, no demonic threat could have strengthened Jon-Tom's will any better than that simple statement.
“That's right. I sing and play duar. What about you?”
“Plays with 'imself, most likely.” Despite their surroundings, or perhaps because of them, Mudge managed an otterish snicker.
Hinckel's eyes flicked sideways. “I see you've got a big rat with you.”
Not only did Mudge emerge from Jon-Tom's shadow, he advanced several paces forward. “I'll 'ave you know that I'm a bloomin' otter, guv. I'd also like you to know, just by way o' casual conversation, that you're the ugliest example o' your tribe 'tis ever been me misfortune to set eyes on.”
“Yeah, well, lemme tell you thatâ” Hinckel halted in midreply. “Wait a minute. What am I arguing with you for? I'm in charge here. I command the, uh, music of the spheres.”
“What kind of spheres?” Jon-Tom's fingers were ready. “Ball bearings?”
“A comedian. Where you from? Not around here.”
“Originally L.A. Now ⦠now I guess you'd have to say that I
am
from around here.”
Hinckel nodded. “Okay. Because you're an ex-city boy I'll give you and your rat-bro one chance to get out before I lose my temper. I'm being generous. You interrupted my breakfast.”
Eyeing the soggy mountain of french fries, Jon-Tom came close to losing his own latest meal. “Was everything we heard on our way up original with you?”
“Damn right. I'm workin' on a ballad.”
“Ballad?” Mudge made a gagging sound. “You call those hideous sounds a ballad?”
“That's good, Mudge,” Jon-Tom whispered. “Do everything you can not to incite him.”
“Oi, why dance around the dickery bush, mate? You 'eard that bile clear as me.”
“You must have something going for you to have made it this far.” Hinckel turned thoughtful. In addition to everything else, Jon-Tom noted, their nemesis had terrible posture. “Casual travelers don't call at my island.”
“A piece of music led us here,” Jon-Tom told him. “A cluster of associated chords.” Looking around, he wasn't surprised to see that the cloud of notes which had accompanied them all this way had chosen to remain outside the keep. He didn't blame it.
“It needs to be returned to its rightful owner. Like all the rest of the music you've appropriated.”
“Rightful owner?” Hinckel was amused. “Now there's a fresh concept.”
“This thieving of music has to stop.” Fully committed, Jon-Tom pressed on. “You have to leave honest musicians and natural songsters like the whales alone.”
“Like hell I do.”
“Your former band mates say that you're doing this so that you'll be the only one left able to make music, and that because of that people will have to listen to you.” The spellsinger lowered his voice. “I can tell you right now it won't make any difference. You can put every piece of music in the world under lock and key. It won't make people like you any better.”
“Won't it? We'll see.” A twisted grin, a sort of visual equivalent of the belch which had preceded it, creased the thin mouth. “So my ex-sidemen, my
buddies,
led you up here. I've kind of been ignoring them lately. They're overdue for a visit.”
“We would've found our own way.” Jon-Tom was anxious not to do anything that would contribute to the already pitiful condition of the unfortunate trio.
“Call themselves a band,” Hinckel was muttering. “Bunch of Jersey pricks. That Gathers; thought he could play guitar. And Hill. What a loser! As for Zimmerman, man, you'd think
anybody
could play bass.” Their host's laugh was an unlovely screech. “Well, look at 'em now! The lost goys.”
“Why don't you send them home?” Jon-Tom restrained his rising anger. “There's no need to keep them here.”
“Oh, but there is! I like for them to have to listen to me. They wouldn't listen to me when they needed a new singer. Well, they can damn sure listen to me now. For eternity.”
“Oi, but you are a vicious one,” Mudge growled.
“Not vicious. Righteous, rat. I know what I can do, musically. I know my talent. Soon so will everyone elseâthey'll have no alternative. Anyone who wants to listen to music will have to listen to
mine.
” Looking smug, he sat back on the throne. “Once they've acknowledged my superior talent, once they've begun to appreciate me, then maybe,
maybe,
I'll let them have some of their old music back. A trickle to a piccolo here, a silly little love song there.