Authors: Alan Dean Foster
“That's for sure,” Mudge added sharply.
“Let's go.” He started down the hall.
Mudge made a face. “I've 'eard this before, I 'ave. Right, then. Lead on. Wherever
on
'appens to be.”
They followed the mote-chords out of the tree, onto the grass, and southward into the Bellwoods, man and otter trailing a glittering cloud of miniature stars and planets, moons and comets, that together formed not a constellation but a distinct and increasingly cheerful fragment of a tune.
Clothahump watched them depart, grateful to see the last of them. With Ghorpul engaged in his duties, the wizard was finally able to retire once more to the special room of velvet darkness in which he chose to lose himself in contemplation of the unfathomable mysteries of the Universe.
Seating himself in the exact center of the spherical chamber (which required that he hover precisely three body lengths off the floor), he made use of a quantity of drifting powders and potions. Soon the surroundings were illuminated by a nebulous, chromatic blush, which under the wizard's sonorous, hypnotic urging began to take on substance and form.
It was the shape of another turtle: young, lithe (insofar as a turtle could be lithe), decidedly female, and soft of shell. It was a most impressive conjuration, though its inherent philosophical gravity might well constitute a matter for some debate. Proximate to the phantasm Clothahump floated, hands and legs folded in front of him, his largely inflexible face cast in a perhaps less than profound grin⦠.
As they followed the main north-south trailway away from the river and their homes, Jon-Tom was convinced he detected a decided bounce in Mudge's step and a glint in the otter's eye.
“Getting that old anticipation back?”
The otter peered up at him. “Excited? About the possibility o' dyin' in some 'orrible fashion, or violently sacrificin' some important body part I've grown especially fond of? Oh, I'm in a terrible hurry for that, I am!” Then he flashed that irresistible grin Jon-Tom had come to know so well.
“Actually, for the first time ever takin' off in your company, mate, I feel 'alfway relaxed. After all, 'ow much trouble can a bit o' bemused music get one into?” He nodded in the direction of the cloud of swirling chords which bobbed impatiently along not a dozen paces in front of them, chiming as they beckoned.
Swinging the duar around, Jon-Tom began experimenting idly with a favorite melody. The response of the mote-notes was immediate. They darted toward him, causing Mudge to duck sideways, and swarmed the magical instrument: spiraling around the double stems, forming vortexes beneath the resonating chamber, testing the extent of the interdimensional harmonic flux that burned and throbbed where the two sets of strings intersected.
Mudge relaxed and smiled. “I think you've made a friend, mate.”
Jon-Tom's fingers moved easily through the gentle glowing warmth of the orphaned chords. “Music's always been my friend. Over the years I've grown with it and it with me.” A determined look crossed his face. “Where spellsinging is concerned, I intend for this journey to differ from all that have preceded it.”
Mudge started. “'Ang on a minim there, Jon-Tom. We ain't likely to be requirin' much in the way o' spellsingin' on this trip.”
“We don't know that,” replied his tall companion cheerfully. “But if the occasion demands, I plan to take a clue from Buncan. Who says you can't learn from your kids?”
“How do you mean?” asked Mudge darkly.
“I mean that I'm not just going to sing the same old songs anymore. When possible I'm going to try and do as he did and devise my own lyrics to cope with any unexpected situations.”
“'Ere now, guv, I know it ain't for me to say, but if it were up to me, I'd rather you didn't do that, don'tcha know. You always seemed to 'ave enough troubles findin' quite the right old song to spellsing. I ain't sure brilliant improvisin' is exactly your line.”
“Employing lyrics of my own invention will give me a lot more control over each spell. Besides, you have to admit I can't do worse than I've done with the standards.”
To this the otter had to nod sagely. “You 'ave me there, mate.”
“Have some confidence, Mudge. After all, I've been doing this for nearly twenty years now.”
“That's wot worries me,” the otter confessed, but under his breath.
“Your feather's wilted.” Jon-Tom indicated the battered green felt cap and its decorative quill.
The otter touched a finger to the tip of the weathered chapeau. “Weegee keeps throwin' it away. I keep sneakin' out and recoverin' it from the garbage. Tis a game we play.” To change the subject he gestured toward the river. “Wot do we do if our musical accompaniment decides to make a sharp left-'and turn? Sing up a spellsong for walkin' on water?”
Jon-Tom beamed indulgently. “We'll do what we've always done, Mudge. Handle each crisis as it develops. Buy me no trouble and I'll sing you no lies.”
“I'm encouraged no end,” the otter replied dryly.
Days succeeded one another in comparative tranquillity as they reached the junction with the Tailaroam itself and turned southwestward. Small sailing craft coursed rapidly toward the distant Glittergeist, while the crews of vessels bound in the opposite direction strained at their oars to make headway against the current, rowing upstream toward Pfeiffumunter and still more distant Polastrindu. From time to time human and otter would wave at them, and various members of the disparate crews would wave back, occasionally hesitating, to gesture and gape at the softly tinkling cloud which preceded the odd pair down the trail.
“Weegee won't believe me letter.” Mudge amused himself by catching a small grasshopper and letting it go, then catching it again with a snatch of the fingers that was little more than a blur. “She'll think I've stumbled off to Lynchbany to carouse and drink.”
“A not unnatural assumption,” Jon-Tom deposed.
“Oi now, mate, that ain't bloomin' fair. You know I've outgrown that wastrel existence. I'm a respected, settled family type, I am.”
“Most all the time,” his friend agreed. “Don't worry about it. As long as Weegee knows you're with me, she'll know that I'll keep an eye on you. For what that's worth. In any case, she'll be more tolerant of your taking off than will Talea.”
“Well, naturally.” Mudge looked mildly surprised. “I'm an otter.”
Far behind them now his tree home stood deserted and silent. The Wooden walls of the study did not tremble to the vibrations of Jon-Tom's bardic modalities, nor the kitchen to the vibrant rustling of Talea's apron or cursing. The spell-soundproofed upstairs bedrooms were devoid of human presence, not to mention the raucous rapping of Buncan, Squill, and Nocter. Beds stood neatly made, closets dripped with clothing unworn, and the floors reposed somnolent and unscuffed, awaiting the return of the occupants.
The only movement was produced by the infrequent sprite or demonic appurtenance as it skittered along a crack in the floor or ceiling, brightly tinted and shy. Anxious to avoid Jon-Tom's artfully concealed thaumaturgic traps, they were careful to manufacture no mischief, though there was the occasional disputatious encounter with this or that wandering, pugnacious cricket.
In the soporific silence of the empty dining room, the air crackled brilliantly as if a thousand old newspapers were suddenly being indecently assaulted by an army of starving termites. The carbonated atmosphere fractured shrilly, admitting the edgy components of an ambulatory
something
which rapidly coalesced into a shape possessed of weight as well as form.
Little taller than Mudge, the attenuated creature wore a strap-and-pouch arrangement across its upper back, and little else. Its hard-shell exoderm shone in the sun, throwing off echoes of lapis and malachite. Stiff-jointed fingers manipulated the devices strapped to its underside while the breathing orifices on its middle wheezed rhythmically.
Firmly braced on multiple legs, it turned a slow circle while considering its immediate environs. Six finely filigreed metal shoes shod its feet, each covered in delicately worked and utterly incomprehensible script. Vast eyes scrutinized the table, chairs, china cabinet, and assorted wall decorations. Except for the soft whisper of its breathing, it made not a sound, though its multiple mouth parts were in constant motion. The cutting edges were stained purple, as though their owner had eaten nothing but grapes for a month.
Less than a thumbnail in width and the same color as the metal shoes, radiant in the afternoon light, a bright golden headband encircled the hairless skull. A rectangular box fashioned of complex but unthreatening polymers dangled from the four fingers of a left hand. Lights and contact points dimpled its surface. Set flush in its center was a transparent oval readout. It whined insistently.
When the creature touched the transparent facing with another finger, the whine went away. Golden eyes finished scanning the room, whereupon it moved on to the kitchen. Its search eventually encompassed every room in the tree. Only briefly distracted by intriguing objects irrelevant to its purpose, the visitor finally found itself in Jon-Tom's study.
There it paused to massage with two sets of fingers tiny whorls located just beneath the gold headband. While performing this task it emitted a strong, aromatic perfume and a distinct air of puzzlement, giving every indication of having overlooked something vital.
Issuing a decidedly discouraged whistle, it flicked several of the contact points on the polymer box. Once more the atmosphere in its immediate vicinity began to effervesce. Accompanied by the piquant tinkling sound of miniature glass chimes, the creature fragmented, the multiple shards of itself sliding into transient tracks in space-time, until all was once again
non compos corpus.
The peculiar visitor had brought nothing, taken nothing, and left nothing behind, save perhaps a faint odor of broiled nutmeg.
DAYS LATER, JON-TOM
and Mudge were beginning to wonder if the vagrant music was going to lead them straight on into the tide-tossed waters of the Glittergeist Sea, when the flickering chord-cloud made a sudden and demanding turn southward. The only problem with the abrupt change of direction was that it took the music straight across the Tailaroam, which by now had become a river both wide and deep.
While Mudge could have crossed it easily, carrying with him not only his own gear but Jon-Tom's as well, the river confronted the spellsinger with a serious challenge. Cupping hands to mouth, he shouted toward their ethereal guide.
“Are you sure this is the right way?”
The cluster of sounds darted back until it was hovering directly in front of his face, then shot out across the river a second time. It repeated the action three times, the last time pausing a quarter of the way across, bobbing up and down with obvious impatience.
“I can tow you part o' the way, mate, but not to the bank awaitin' opposite. Not with carryin' all the gear as well, especially that bleedin' precious duar o' yours.”
“We'll look for an easier way across. Not that I couldn't manage it if I had to. I'm still a pretty good swimmer.”
“For a rock,” the otter agreed.
“Your tolerance level hasn't improved with age. Want to have a high-jumping contest?”
There being only the most limited development along the rocky south shore of the Tailaroam, they finally located not a ferry, but a genet with a boat. He was willing to take them across for what Jon-Tom thought was a reasonable fee and what a gagging Mudge insisted was outrageously exorbitant. Once they had been safely and efficiently deposited on the other side, Jon-Tom went so far as to insist that the otter return the fee he had efficiently pickpocketed from the startled boatman.
“I don't understand you.” Jon-Tom chastised his friend as they resumed their march along the far less traveled path south of the river. “We're not youngsters scrabbling for change anymore. We can afford to pay for honest service. What you were trying to pull back there can only get us in trouble.”
Mudge was only mildly abashed. “Old 'abits die 'ard, guv. I 'ave this aversion to lettin' money,
any
amount o' money, out o' me 'ands.”
“I understand, but it was
my
money.” Jon-Tom shifted his light pack against his shoulders.
“'Tis not the owner, but the principle o' the matter,” the otter argued as they followed the insistent chords across the beach and into the trees that marked the southernmost march of the Bellwoods.
While remaining heavily forested, the terrain soon grew hilly and difficult, gradual ascents alternating with steep slopes and fiendishly slippery ravines. They were entering the eastern reaches of the Duggakurra Hills, a rarely visited region noted for irksome terrain and little else. Streams and rivulets seemed to flow between every rock and boulder, tumbling remorselessly down from the towering mountains that lay wreathed in cloud far to the east, cutting their way through the solid granite as they groped blindly coastward, with gravity their indifferent and easily distracted guide. The endlessly winding gullies and arroyos made for hard walking, and the travelers had to pause frequently to rest.
Whenever they stopped, the chords would gather anxiously nearby, ringing insistently lest they linger too long. Too long for what? Jon-Tom found himself wondering at the urgency.
“Hey you up there! Take it easy.” Sucking air as they crested yet another hill, Jon-Tom did not stop to wonder at the incongruity of attempting to hold intelligent converse with a musical sequence. “We're not the hikers we used to be. Besides, we can't travel as perfectly straight a course as a piece of music. We're not made of light, you know.”
“Oi, music don't give us wings, ya blitherin' blast o' bastard brass!” Slumping onto a broad, polished boulder, Mudge rubbed at his ankles and winced. On a long journey, the otter's unflagging energy did not always compensate for his absurdly short legs. He would have found the going far easier on level ground.