The Paths Of The Perambulator

“You really can be extraordinarily insulting, you know,” Dormas told him.

“Right now I’m just extraordinarily miserable, lass—or is it to be sir?”

“I don’t know myself,” she murmured. “Let’s see what your spellsinger can do about it.”

Jon-Tom took his time preparing and choosing, keeping Clothahump’s warning in mind. He tried to use songs by both the most masculine and feminine performers he could think of, ended up alternating lyrics by good old Elvis P. with some hot flashes by Tina Turner. The result left something to be desired musically but apparently not magically.

“There,” he said with a sigh, as he cleared his throat and put his duar aside. It had been fun to sing soprano for a while, but he was glad to have his own voice back, though not as glad as Mudge. Once the otter discovered that he was indeed himself again, he bounded from his position by Sorbl’s tree and danced frenziedly around the fire. Only exhaustion finally brought him to a halt.

‘ Tis a true abomination wot’s forcin’ this poor perambulator to wreak such obscene havoc. I’ll personally put ‘im out of ‘is misery when I see ‘is rotten face, I will.”

“I personally hope it is that easy,” Clothahump commented quietly. “Now I suggest that we retire, early as it may be. We will need all our reserves in the event the morrow brings fresh surprises. The next perturbation may require even stronger magic to counter.”

As close as the wizard ever came to complimenting him, Jon-Tom thought sourly. He’d expected nothing more. He was right about getting some serious sleep, though. Jon-Tom put his duar aside, wrapped himself up in his lizard-skin cape, and rolled over. Mudge was laying out his own bedroll. Jon-Tom smiled at him.

“Good night, you cute little pinch of fluff, you.”

The otter glanced at him sharply. “ ‘Ow’d you like to try singin’ without your front teeth, mate?” He flopped down in a huff, turned away from the tall young human.

Morning provided a powerful reminder that serious perturbations could take place as dramatically while they slept as while they were awake. The indifference of sleep offered no escape.

Instinctively he reached for his duar. Not only was the instrument missing, he discovered that he had nothing to reach with. He tried to sit up and found to his considerable confusion that he had nothing to sit up with, either.

No amount of bewilderment could mask the fact that this was the most radical perturbation they’d yet suffered.

Around him the air was murky, thick, and cloying. He tried to see through it and felt his vision slide. It was as if his eyes were rattling around loose inside his head. Shoving down the panic he felt, he struggled to get hold of himself. At least he could still see, even if only in shades of black and white. He could not make out any colors. Or perhaps, he told himself, he could make out colors and there were none to see.

The sky overhead was a pale, reflective white. Surrounding him were dark gray trees. That was when he saw the monster and recoiled from it. At the same time the monster shrank back from something unseen, and Jon-Tom realized it was cowering away from him.

There were other monsters around, and every one of them appeared petrified by the sight of its neighbor. Jon-Tom began to wonder what he looked like.

Along with color vision he’d lost any sense of smell. He could still hear clearly, though. Just as he could hear the sound of his own body moving forward. The sound was not pleasant. It implied a means of locomotion involving something far less sophisticated than legs.

This time the perturbation had not merely knocked reality askew, it had turned it inside out. Heretofore the perambulator’s changes had made some sense, but this current transformation made no sense at all. Had it begun to draw upon its captor’s insanity?

He struggled to form words. “Can anyone understand me?”

“I can.” The gross form that replied was more incongruous than repugnant in appearance. It did not seem an appropriate home for someone as lithe and swift as Mudge, but it was Mudge’s voice that spoke to him. Directly, through some unknown variety of thought transference. Neither the Mudge-shape nor Jon-Tom nor any of the other monsters possessed anything recognizable as a mouth.

Clothahump spoke up, and then Sorbl and Dormas. Transformed as they were by the unaccountable, all were accounted for. Dormas was the biggest of the five, Sorbl the smallest. The perturbation had stuck to the laws for transformation of mass. It seemed that some rules still applied.

Excepting differences in size, they all looked pretty much like each other: bloated, colorless blobs of gelatinous protoplasm drifting in a slightly less dense fluid. Smaller shapes and outlines were visible within their own bodies. Their shiny epidermi were in constant motion.

Giant single-celled entities, mutated amoebas—Jon-Tom didn’t know enough to be certain exactly what they’d become, but he was glad of what little biology he’d been forced to take.

“This is most disconcerting,” murmured Clothahump voicelessly. “I wonder how limited our present range of movement is.” He extruded a pseudopod and tried to grip something floating through the liquid. This led to the discovery that they could change their positions by shifting their internal mass. It would have upset Jon-Tom’s stomach if he’d had one. Instead he suffered a faint mental nausea.

“What is this? What’ve we turned into?” the Dormas-shape wanted to know.

“My experience does not extend to acquaintance with such shapelessness,” Clothahump told her.

“Well, mine does.” All light-sensing organelles turned to Jon-Tom. “We’ve been turned into something like amoebas, only much larger and far more complex. Just as an example, we’re still capable of higher thought.”

“That’s all right, mate,” said the Mudge-mass. “We’ll all shift back to ourselves in a minute or two. Ain’t that right, Your Blobship?”

“I certainly hope so.” He glanced around. “Our supplies appear to have vanished. This has not happened during any of the previous perturbations.”

It struck Jon-Tom then that his appraisal of their current situation was more accurate than he’d first imagined.

“Our supplies haven’t disappeared. They’re right here, all around us. We just can’t see them in our present states. See, we don’t resemble microscopic organisms. We’ve become microscopic organisms. We’ve shrunk.” He gestured with a pseudopod. “Those boulders over there are probably nothing more than grains of sand, those trees microscopic lichen or something. A light breeze could scatter us, blow us away. It’s a good thing we decided to sleep in a protected glade.”

“How can something so small be capable of thought and speech?” Dormas asked him.

“How should I know? I’m no expert on the ramifications of perturbations. Who says they have to be logical, anyway?”

“The danger is apparent,” said Clothahump grimly. “We cannot wait passively for our return. We must try to do something. But my potions are elsewhere, and I have not the faintest notion of how to begin.”

“How about a spellsong, Jon-Tom?” Sorbl asked him.

“I need my duar, Sorbl. You know that.”

“Can’t you just try without it?”

He sighed, and it washed through his entire body. “It’d just be a waste of time and energy.”

“Perhaps not.” Jon-Tom could feel the wizard’s attention on him. “Since you have no duar on which to accompany yourself, you must try to fashion one.”

Jon-Tom let his simplified gaze roam through their oleaginous surroundings. “Out of what? There’s no wood here, nothing to fashion strings from. Even if I could rig a crude sort of duar, I couldn’t play it.”

“Why not?” Sorbl wondered.

“Because ‘e ain’t got no fingers, featherbrain,” Mudge told him.

“That need not hold him back,” said Clothahump thoughtfully.

“You could spellsing up a duar, mate, if you ‘ad a duar.”

“What do you mean, it needn’t hold me back, sir?”

By way of reply Clothahump twisted a section of himself into an intricate figure eight. “Our present bodies are extraordinarily flexible. They can be stretched into any possible shape.”

“Oh, I see. Even into fingers.”

“No, my boy. Not only into fingers. Into a duar itself.”

“That’s impossible.”

“That word is an obsession with you. Try.”

Jon-Tom shrugged, felt a portion of himself ripple. “Why not? It’s better than sitting here waiting to be blown or washed away.”

How does one go about becoming the instrument one is used to playing? He fought to conjure up a concrete image in his mind. Strings like so, resonance chamber so, measurements such and such—just thinking about it hurt his mind. When he had the mental picture refined to his satisfaction, he began to twist, to contort, to strain.

It was not only difficult, it was painful. But he kept at it, readjusting his tissues, polishing his exterior, until to his very considerable surprise he had molded himself into a familiar shape composed of gleaming gelatinous material.

A song now, he mused. Something appropriate to their situation, something suitable for changing shape and volume. Yes, Paul Williams should work. He began to sing, and to play himself.

The notes didn’t sound quite right, nor did his voice, but he persisted. Distortion was only to be expected under the circumstances. It still seemed a waste of time, until something vast and glowing could be seen coming toward them. It was an enormous lambent shape, like a small sun, though within the light he thought he could make out the dim outline of something almost familiar.

Dormas shrank away from it, and Mudge and Sorbl tried to flee. As Jon-Tom played on, only Clothahump held his position. For he recognized it immediately. Its appearance was not only proof that Jon-Tom’s spellsinging was working, but of the true size to which they’d been reduced.

“Stay,” he ordered the others. “It is quite harmless. It is only a gneechee.”

A single gneechee, those can’t-be-seen specks of light that were so much more. They were attracted to active magic, and this one had sought them out to cavort in the echoes of Jon-Tom’s spellsinging.

As he played himself on, the eerie wail became real music. He found that regardless of the results, he was enjoying himself. It is one thing to play an instrument well enough to feel it is a part of you. It’s quite another to make it all of you.

As he sang on, played on, the sky began to lighten. From a liquid translucence it brightened to yellow, the first true color he’d been able to perceive since the perturbation. The yellow intensified to gold. The sun seemed to be coming straight toward them. Not the gneechee this time but the bright, glowing orb that warmed the world: the true sun.

The by-now familiar mental snap, a moment of complete disorientation, and he staggered momentarily as he fought for balance, clutching with one hand at the duar hanging from his neck and at a rock with the other.

Back again.

A single bright spot of light vanished from the comer of his vision. He bid a silent farewell to the gneechee, hoping it had enjoyed the concert. Music rang through his brain, reverberated the length and breadth of his body. These aftereffects of the perturbation and his time as an instrument did not linger long, for which he was sorry. Not every perturbation made you feel lost or ill. He had been granted a few moments to live the musician’s dream. From now on he would only be able to live up to those moments of musical epiphany in his memory.

Around them the forest stood silent sentinel, seemingly unchanged. Before him he saw their campsite and supplies.

Clothahump lay on his back, kicking violently and attempting to right himself. Mudge sat on a rock, grasping at various parts of his body as if to reassure himself of his restored solidity. Dormas lay prone on the far side of the fire. She quickly rolled onto her knees and stood. Once more capable of flight, a relieved Sorbl took to the air to scan the woods surrounding them, darting in tight, happy circles overhead, whistling the defiant cry of his clan.

Clothahump barked an order at Jon-Tom, snapping him out of his rapidly fading chordal reverie. “Don’t just stand there gaping, my boy! Give me a hand. I’d turn myself, but I fear the transformation has weakened me more than I first thought.”

Lazy, Jon-Tom thought. The turtle was perfectly capable of standing by himself. But he put his duar aside and, together, he and Mudge stood the wizard back on his feet.

“A bad one, that,” Clothahump commented. “I should not have enjoyed continuing through life without a skeleton.

Mudge settled himself back on his tree. “You’re right. There’s worse things than goin’ through a change o’ sex. At least you look like somethin’. Me, I could use a good stiff one.”

“Under the circumstances, I believe we could all do with a drink.” He waddled toward their packs. “Will you join us, Dormas?”

“Under the circumstances, you bet your shell-shocked ass I will.”

The bottle was passed around, and when each of them had sipped from the same opening, shared the same liquor, the feeling of a real bond between them was stronger than ever.

“I’ll just repack it for you, Master.” Sorbl tried hard but failed to completely mask the eagerness in his voice.

“I will manage.” The wizard fumbled with the carton from which he’d extracted the bottle. “Otherwise we will not have the advantage of your excellent eyesight for very long. We may need it the next time this happens.”

“You’re sure there’ll be a next time soon?” Jon-Tom inquired.

“I did not mention a frequency. There is no way of predicting the perambulator’s perturbations. We could suffer three or four in a single day and then go for weeks without incurring anything more upsetting than momentarily blurred vision. One of the few certainties about a perambulator is its uncertainty. One can no more predict the frequency of occurrence than one can the severity. Truly it is most unsettling.”

“Tis freakin’ weird is wot it is, guv’nor!” Mudge slid down atop his bedroll and put a paw to his forehead. “All of a sudden I feel like I ate somethin’ with little green things growin’ out of it.”

Jon-Tom would have grinned, except for the discovery that his own stomach was doing flip-flops. Sure enough, all of his companions were suffering similar dysenteric effects. Dormas was trembling on her feet.

Looking none too healthy himself, Clothahump was studying each of them in turn. “Yes, I, too, am experiencing the symptoms of an unpleasant internal disorder.” He winced, closing his eyes briefly. “It appears to be developing with extraordinary rapidity, for which we may find reason to be grateful.”

“Another—perturbation already?” Jon-Tom groaned.

“No, I think not. Rather, the aftereffects. The minuscule creatures we became, it seems, were not entirely harmless. As you may recall, each was slightly different in size and appearance from the other.”

“You think they’re causing the pains we’re feeling now? That they were disease-causing organisms?” Jon-Tom wondered aloud.

The wizard sat down very carefully. “We did not notice this at the time because a disease is most unlikely to generate its own symptoms within itself. Now it is different. We have each of us become the disease that we were.”

Jon-Tom’s stomach settled even as he felt beads of sweat start from his forehead. First upset, then fever. At least whatever it was they had contracted was moving through their bodies with unnatural speed. He glanced over at Mudge.

“How about you? My stomach’s okay now, but I’m bum-ing up.”

“No fever in me, I thinks, mate,” replied the otter. “Trouble is, I’ve developed this bloody itch.”

“That’s too bad. Where?”

“I’d rather not get too specific, mate.” He looked to his left, to where Sorbl was landing unceremoniously in the bushes. Unpleasant bodily noises soon reached them.

Emulating Clothahump, Jon-Tom took a seat. Since this wasn’t a perturbation but merely the aftereffects of one, it should pass soon enough. He might have tried to spellsing them back to health, but he didn’t want to push his luck. Besides which, he didn’t feel very much like singing just then.

From what little he could tell, Dormas appeared to be suffering from an unbelievably accelerated case of hoof-in-mouth. Clothahump was now blowing his nose nonstop and giving every indication of trying to ride out a severe cold. He stared across at Jon-Tom through suddenly swollen eyes.

“How interesting. Red blotches are beginning to appear on your—on your—achoo!—face.”

“Measles.” Jon-Tom swallowed, wiping sweat from his brow. “I never had the measles. This isn’t so bad after all. I’ll have them and be done with them permanently in a day or so instead of a couple of weeks. How about that? We finally get something beneficial out of a perturbation.”

“Don’t try to tell that to Sorbl.” The wizard nodded toward the trees behind Jon-Tom. From within the brush pitiful retching sounds alternated with less pleasant ones.

“Too bad.” Of them all, Mudge appeared the least affected by his personal infection. “Needs to lead a ‘ealthier life, the poor sod.”

“I have not had a cold in some time,” observed Clothahump. “And you say you have never had these measles before?” Jon-Tom nodded. “It appears then that each of us has contracted something new to our systems, or at the very least something which we have have not experienced in some time.”

“Blimey, you’d think you were all dyin’, wot with all this sneezin’ and sweatin’ and pukin’ an’ all. Wot you chaps need is—” He halted in mid-sentence and his eyes got very wide. Abruptly he bent over and grabbed his crotch with both paws. The reason for his earlier reluctance to identify the location of his itch was now apparent.

Clothahump studied the bent-over otter studiously as he blew his nostrils for the fortieth time. “A new and particularly virulent strain, I should say.”

“Of what?” Jon-Tom touched his cheek with one hand, felt the heat.

“Difficult to say. Gonorrhea, perhaps, or something even less comfiting.” The otter was rolling around on the ground and moaning while he clutched at his privates. Since the diseases they had contracted were moving with exceptional rapidity through their bodies, each of them was suffering the cumulative effects of his or her respective infection. None was more discomforting than the otter’s.

“It ain’t fair,” he was shouting at a vicious fate, “it ain’t fair!”

“Nothing the perambulator does is fair, Mudge.”

“It can’t be. I mean, everyone’s been clean wot I’ve been with the ‘ole bloomin’ year.”

“Doesn’t mean anything to a perturbation,” Jon-Tom told him sympathetically.

Breathing hard, the otter at last rolled to a stop. Sitting up, he pulled down his shorts and commenced to examine himself in detail. “Blimey, you don’t think there’ll be any permanent effects, do you, mate?”

“Mudge, I have no idea. I hope that I’m going to be immune to measles from now on, but I’ve no way of knowing for sure. None of us do.”

Clothahump adjusted his glasses, blew his nose yet again, and murmured, “Poetic justice.”

Mudge’s head snapped around, and he glared at the turtle, barely suppressing the frustration and fury he felt. “If we didn’t absolutely need you to straighten out this rotten mess the world ‘as got itself into, Your Wizardshit, it would give me the greatest pleasure to knock your bloody smug face down into your bloody arse.”

“I did not make the comment out of a casual desire to provoke.” Clothahump was not in the least concerned with the otter’s threat. “I have had occasion to notice, water rat, that you are a great one for laughing at the misfortunes of others. But when it is your own person that is involved in disquieting circumstances, your sense of humor absents itself.”

“Don’t be too hard on him,” Jon-Tom requested. “Really, sir. There’s nothing funny about venereal disease. Why, it could cause shriveling and complete ruination of his—”

Mudge let out a cry of despair and fell over on his side.

VII

They recovered from their assorted infections by the following midday. Jon-Tom had suffered and been done with a severe case of measles in less than twenty-four hours. Clothahump’s cold had left him, and Sorbl no longer had to vanish into the bushes every five minutes. Having contracted the most serious disease of all, Dormas was the last to recover. None of them had any permanent damage to show for their respective bouts.

Mudge was as fit as any of them, having been fully restored to health. That didn’t keep him from taking occasional peeks at himself when he thought no one was looking.

“Relax, Mudge,” Jon-Tom told him. “It’s all over. Pretend it never happened. We’re as healthy as we were the day before last. There are no aftereffects.”

“Bloody well better not be.” He was helping Dormas adjust her load. “If that blasted perambulator baiter’s ‘urt me love life, I’ll dice Mm for a stew.”

“I’m sure you’re none the worse for wear, Mudge. Everyone else is healthy again. You must be too.”

“Well—on close inspection she all appears to be in workin’ order, but I ain’t really in a position to find out for sure. One thing’s certain: I’m goin’ to take ‘er slow an’ easy at first.”

Jon-Tom nodded approvingly. “Thataboy. It wouldn’t hurt you to rein in your profligate life-style a little, anyway.”

“You may be right, mate.” Mudge slipped his longbow over his shoulders. Then he raised one paw, put the other one over his heart, and solemnly intoned, “No more orgies. No more a different lady every night. By the digger of dens, I swear this. I’m goin’ to cut down.”

“It was worth the trouble if it made a new otter out of you. There’s nothing wrong with seeking pleasure in moderation for a change, you know.”

“Aye, mate. It made me see the light, that bloomin’ infection did. I’ve done wot I pleased lo these many years without ‘avin’ a care to wot I might be doin’ to me body. Tis time for a bit more maturity. If I start watchin’ meself, maybe I’ll never ‘ave to suffer with that kind o’ sickness for real.” He shouldered his own small backpack and started briskly up the narrow game trail they’d been following.

“Much as it’s goin’ to ‘urt,” he muttered. “I guess I’ll ‘ave to restrict meself to a different lady every other night.”

Clothahump was shaking his head as he waddled off in the otter’s wake. “Incorrigible, as are most of his kind. You can try your best, my boy, but water rats are unreformable.”

Jon-Tom fell into step alongside him, keeping his strides short to match the wizard’s. “You can’t expect him to turn into a church mouse overnight, sir.”

“I expect him to turn into a desiccated corpse one night is what I expect. But keep trying. Far be it from me to dampen your enthusiasm.”

“You may be right, sir, but keep trying I will.” He let his eyes shift forward. Mudge was leading the way, those bright black eyes darting left and right, missing nothing. He was whistling cheerfully.

At least he’ll die happy, Jon-Tom mused. And who was he, unwilling visitor from another place and time, to criticize? This world had already forced him to relinquish many long-held moral precepts. He would never degenerate to the otter’s level, of course, but neither was he the same person he’d been when Clothahump had mistakenly brought him over. Nor could he exactly be called pure, having enjoyed a joint on occasion and spent more than his fair share of study time trying to focus his roommate’s binoculars on the girls’ dormitory across the way from their apartment.

So who was he to judge Mudge? At least the otter knew how to have fun. Jon-Tom had to work at it. It was the lawyer in him. He was too restrained, too much in control of himself. Maybe one day Mudge would be able to show him how to really let go.

You worry too much, that’s one of your problems, he told himself. Like right now, you’re worrying about worrying too much.

Angrily he kicked at a rock (making certain it was not a pinecone) and tried to think of something else. Nothing was more frustrating than arguing with yourself and losing.

As if doing penance for all the trouble it had caused recently, the perambulator did not trouble them for some time. They marched on, climbing steadily across the plateau, unaffected by discombobulating dislocations, save for a few minor ones. Jon-Tom spent one morning trying to adjust to being suddenly left-handed, while one evening Mudge’s fur turned pure silver. Not silver-colored, but solid strands of metallic silver. He was bitterly disappointed when he changed back before he could give himself a shave.

At the same time Dormas was transformed into a gloriously hued palomino, Jon-Tom acquired the skin tone of a Polynesian, and Sorbl’s brown-and-gray feathers all turned to gold. It was a reminder, Clothahump declared, that not all the perambulator’s perturbations need necessarily have harmful consequences. Jon-Tom was disappointed when his artificial tan vanished along with the rest of the changes. It would have stood him in good stead at the beach.

He’d managed to use his spellsinging to help relieve the discomforts of certain perturbations. What he needed now was a song that would enable him to make the effects of selected perturbations permanent. Like his briefly acquired tan, for example. It would be nice if he could figure out how to freeze a perturbation that added forty pounds of muscle to his upper body or raised his IQ a hundred points.

It gave him something to concentrate on as they continued their climb. Eventually he broached the idea to Clothahump.

“A dangerous proposition, my boy. Particularly when one takes into account the notorious inaccuracy of your spellsinging.”

“You’ll have to come up with something besides that if you’re going to stop me from trying, sir.”

The wizard sighed. “I do not doubt it. Consider this, then: Instead of perpetuating a benign perturbation—you could not merely alter its effect with your spellsinging—you could transform it into something terrible and uncontrolled.”

“But think of the possibilities, sir, if it could be done right! For example, suppose we were to be struck by a perturbation that took a hundred years off your life? You could be young again, physically as well as mentally vigorous.”

“To be granted another hundred years of activity, that is tempting, my boy. Yes, tempting. To a certain extent we can prolong life, but we cannot restore what has already been used. But a perturbation—yes, a perturbation could possibly accomplish that.” It appeared to Jon-Tom as if the wizard was growing slightly misty-eyed behind his six-sided spectacles.

“Certainly it would be worth considering. Sadly, you youngsters tend not to take the time to balance possible gains with probable risks. Think about it, though, if it pleases you.”

Jon-Tom did so, enthusiastically at first and then with more and more caution. There was only one problem with a perturbation that would take a hundred years off the wizard’s life. It would also make Jon-Tom seventy-four years less than being born, a difficult position from which to rescue oneself. Maybe trying to make the effects of a perturbation permanent wasn’t such a good idea after all. It wasn’t long before he dropped the once-promising idea completely. The perambulator was dangerous because it monkeyed with reality. Monkeying with the monkey, he decided, could be more dangerous still.

Thoughts of freezing the perambulator’s effects were soon replaced by thoughts of freezing things closer to home. They were well to the north of even Ospenspri by now. The nights had become very cold, but the sunlit days were still quite tolerable. Winter was still several weeks away from wrapping the northern portions of the warmlands in a blanket of white.

The chill did not trouble the thickly furred Mudge or the heavily feathered (and well-lubricated) Sorbl. Nor did it appear to bother Dormas. But both Jon-Tom and Clothahump were warm-weather types. They could cope with the late fall weather but not with snow and ice.

The extent of Clothahump’s concern for the weather was indicated by the fact that he alluded to it at least once a day. “We must find and release the perambulator soon, or winter will trap us here on the plateau. I am not anxious to save the world, only to freeze to death as a result of doing so.”

“We’ll make it,” Jon-Tom assured him confidently. “If we run into any serious weather on the way out, Dormas can carry us. Remember, her contract stipulates that her ban against riders doesn’t include the injured or incapacitated.”

“She would still require assistance in finding her way back down the plateau.”

“Sorbl can guide her.”

The wizard let out a snort of derision. “I would not trust my famulus to guide me to the bathroom.”

“All right, then, Mudge could do it.”

Clothahump glanced at Mudge, who was blissfully whistling away, cracking nuts on a flat boulder with a fist-sized chunk of granite. Then he looked back at Jon-Tom.

“I am glad that after all you have been through these past months, you still retain your unique sense of humor.”

“I know that sometimes Mudge acts like less than the ideal companion, but if it came down to a real life-or-death situation, I’m sure he’d be there to help me. He’s demonstrated that he’s prepared to do that on several previous occasions.”

“Which is no indication that he hasn’t experienced a change of heart,” the wizard argued. “I think your confidence is badly misplaced, my boy.”

“Well, I disagree. Mudge and I understand each other.” He turned and raised his voice. “Don’t we, Mudge?”

The otter looked up, ostentatiously chewing the fruits of his labors, and eyed the tall young man quizzically. “Don’t we wot, mate?”

“Understand one another. I was just telling Clothahump that if I fell down to die in the snow, you’d drag or carry me to safety.”

“Why, o’ course I would! Wot are mates for if they can’t depend on one another? I’d pull you until the soles wore out o’ me boots an’ me ‘ands were raw an’ bleedin’ from the effort o’ draggin’ your oversize skinny carcass back to civilization. I’d get you to warmth and nursin’ at the risk o’ me own life. I’d haul and haul until—”

“Don’t overdo it, Mudge.”

“Right, mate.” The otter turned back to his remaining unopened victuals.

“You see?” Jon-Tom told the wizard. Clothahump smiled back at him.

“And, of course, the otter has never lied to you.”

“Oh, he’s fudged the truth a little now and then, but when the chips are down, Mudge is up.”

“Hmph! Up and away, I should say.”

Silence took up a stance between them. Just as well, or Jon-Tom might have said something disrespectful to the old magic-maker. Of course, Mudge meant what he said! He was a faithful companion and good friend. He found himself glancing ever so surreptitiously in the otter’s direction and was ashamed to confess that Clothahump’s pessimism had started him to thinking unflattering thoughts about the otter.

He finished his cup of tea angrily.

The following morning revealed a northern landscape filled with towering, snow-clad peaks. Jon-Tom stared at the precipitous crags, asked dubiously, “We’re not going to have to go up into that, are we?”

Clothahump shaded his eyes as he considered the terrain confronting them. “I don’t know, my boy. I have traced the perambulator this far, but it is difficult to ascertain its location with absolute precision. We can only continue to follow the line that lies between it and the home tree. I only hope its prison is accessible to us.”

“And wot if she ain’t, guv’nor?” Mudge was more surefooted than any of them, but even he had no stomach for challenging the mountains that lay in front of them. “We turn back for ‘ome an’ ‘ope that everything turns out for the best?”

“Nothing turns out for the best, my furry friend, unless you strive to make it do so. Hope is no substitution for hard work. Wherever the perambulator is being held, that is where we must go. Somehow.” He led them onward.

Those towering peaks and sheer granite walls still lay a long way ahead of them. It was possible that they would encounter the perambulator and its captor long before any real climbing was necessary. Everyone hoped so. Jon-Tom could only gaze on the wizard with new admiration. While everyone was complaining about the possibility that they might have to do some difficult climbing, no one had remarked on the fact that of them all, Clothahump was the least equipped to do so.

Several days more brought no sign that they were any closer to their goal, but it did present them with a new challenge: fog. No more than ever they had to rely on Clothahump to guide them, for in the thick, cloying grayness Sorbl could not fly and scout out the easiest path ahead.

Mudge sniffed endlessly, nervously, at the damp, moist air. “Never did care much for this stuff. There’s them that think it romantic. Me, I says that’s tallywabble. ‘Ow’s a person supposed to watch out for ‘imself in this gray crap?”

“Reminds me of movies I’ve seen of the Golden Gate, in San Francisco.”

That piqued the otter’s interest and raised his spirits as well. “A gate made out o’ gold! That’s the first reference you’ve made to your world that interests me, mate. Maybe she ain’t as bad a place to live as you make it out to be.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, but the gate I’m referring to isn’t made out of gold. That’s just a name given to it because of how it looks at certain times of day.”

“Oh, that’s the case, is it? Doesn’t compare to the jeweled gate of Motaria, then? Pity. As for Motaria, I’ve ‘card tales that say . . .” And he proceeded to spin the story without having to be prompted by Jon-Tom. When he finally ran out of words, the fog was thicker than ever.

They walked on in silence. Mudge kept sniffing the air, searching the dampness for suggestions of possible danger, when the discordant mumbling from off to his right finally made him search out his tall friend once more.

“Look, mate, I don’t mind you practicin’ your spellsingin’, but I’d be obliged if you could do it a mite more quietly.” Jon-Tom didn’t look at him. He was scanning the forest, 128

what he could see of it through the fog. “I haven’t been spellsinging, Mudge. In fact, I was just going to ask you to be quiet.”

“Me? I ‘aven’t so much as—”

“Nobody can hear themselves think over all that damned sniffing of yours. But I think I hear something else.”

Mudge frowned but stood quietly, save for one involuntary sniff. His gaze narrowed slightly. “Blimey, you’re right, mate. I ‘eard bad singin’ for sure, but it weren’t you.” Dormas had trotted over to join them. She stood next to Jon-Tom, her nose held high to sample the air, her ears cocked alertly forward.

“I hear it, too, boys. Some kind of singing or chanting. Think I can smell something also.”

“What species?” Clothahump’s eyes and ears were neither as sharp as Mudge’s nor as sensitive as Dormas’s. Besides which, he was fully occupied with trying to keep moisture from congealing on his glasses. He wiped them with a cloth as he stared into the fog.

“Rodentia, I think.” Dormas inhaled deeply. “There’s so much water in the air, it’s tough to say.”

“Right about that, lass. Take a deep whiff and ‘tis like blowin’ your nose backwards.”

Jon-Tom made a face. “Your gift for metaphor is as .effervescent as ever, Mudge.”

“I ‘ope that’s as dirty as it sounds, mate.”

“More than one of them, whoever they are.” The hinny’s nostrils flexed. Jon-Tom was acutely conscious of his olfactory inadequacies. Compared to any one of his companions, he was virtually scent-blind.

“Any idea how many of them there might be?” Clothahump asked her.

“Can’t say. Don’t matter, anyways, does it?” She glanced down at him. “We’re not headed in that direction.”

“We cannot be certain which route we will employ to return.” The wizard considered the tantalizing fog thoughtfully. “I confess to curiosity. I should like to know through whose territory we have been traveling.” Behind him, Sorbl let out a groan.

“Me too,” avowed Dormas.

Mudge eyed first the hinny, then Clothahump in disbelief. “Wot’s with you two? Remember, curiosity killed the cat.”

“Not anybody I know.” Dormas started into the trees, dropped her head to sniff the damp ground ahead of them.

“We are far from Ospenspri, far north of any civilized town.” Clothahump put his glasses back on his beak. They immediately began to fog up again. “There can, however, be habitation without civilization. I have heard many tales of the wild tribes that are said to infest these infrequently visited north woods. It would be useful to obtain some firsthand knowledge of their ways.”

“Why don’t you just read a bleedin’ book about ‘em, guv’nor?”

“There is little to read, my water-loving fuzz-brain.” The wizard moved to follow in Dormas’s wake. “Few explorers come this way. They prefer the warmlands or the tropics. We have a unique opportunity here.”

“Aye, to become some shithead rat’s dinner.” Mudge looked up at Jon-Tom. “You see the wisdom in me words, don’t you, lad?”

“I see that wisdom is not gained without risks.” Clothahump smiled approvingly at him. “Sorry, Mudge.” He stepped forward to join the other two.

“You’re all bloody fools—not that that’s the surprise o’ the year.” The frustrated otter folded his arms and held his ground. What really made him angry was that they were ignoring him. He didn’t mind being screamed at, yelled at, or insulted, but when those whose opinion differed from his acted as though he didn’t exist, he wanted to stab something. Given his present company, however, even that release was denied to him. His knife couldn’t dent Clothahump’s shell, Jon-Tom would sense him coming, and Dormas’s arse was too high.

So he drew his short sword and relieved some of his frustration by hacking a nearby bush to pieces.

Jon-Tom, Dormas, and Clothahump continued to ignore their apoplectic companion. They were too busy trying to identify the source of the mysterious, eerie chanting that floated through the woods. It seemed as if it were being carried along by the fog itself, rising and falling, the cadence distinctive, the words unrecognizable.

“An ancient language,” the wizard commented, “doubtless handed down from chanter to chanter. It may be that those who sing no longer know the meaning of the words but continue to recite them because they believe they have power.”

Jon-Tom was no linguist, but even he could sense the age of the chants. They seemed to consist largely of grunts and groans, of the kinds of sounds animals would make: animals incapable of reason and speech and higher thought. A tribal legacy retained from a precivilized past. No wonder Clothahump was interested in the people who would make such sounds. He glanced back over a shoulder.

“Mudge, you’re the best stalker among us. Why don’t you lead the way?”

Having demolished the bush and returned his sap-stained sword to its scabbard, the otter resolutely turned his back on them. “Not me, guv’nor. Go stick your neck into the pot if you want to, but I’m stayin’ ‘ere.”

“Leave the water rat be,” Clothahump told his tall human charge. “We shall advance without him. If naught else, our approach will be quieter. Dormas, can you still smell them?”

“Faintly. It’ll get stronger as we get closer. Maybe this damn fog will lift a little too.”

They started forward. Sorbl rose from his perch to settle on the top of Dormas’s pack. Mudge looked at the owl in surprise.

“Sorbl? You’re not goin’, too, mate?”

“I have no choice.” The apprentice looked back at him. “I must go where my master goes.”

“Don’t worry, Mudge,” Jon-Tom told him. “We’ll be back in a little while. You can stay here and guard the campsite.”

“Wot? All by meself?” The otter gazed warily into the impenetrable, claustrophobic fog. He made a growling sound in his throat as he spoke to Jon-Tom. “You think you’re bloomin’ clever, don’t you, you ‘airless son of an ape? You know I ain’t likely to squat ‘ere on me fundament in this stinkin’ fog without anyone to watch me back.”

“Frankly I don’t care what you do, you spineless offspring of a cottonmouth, but if you’re coming with us, get up here and make yourself useful.”

Having concluded this exchange of pleasantries and having reavowed their undying friendship, Mudge joined Jon-Tom in leading the way. In fact, the otter took the lead, professing a desire to keep as far from his tall friend as possible.

Clothahump looked approvingly at his guest. “You are learning, my boy, that words are more useful than weapons.”

“What do you expect from somebody in law school? I’ve known Mudge long enough to know what buttons to push. He would’ve come along, anyway. He just likes to make it look like he’s been forced.”

“Don’t be too sure of your ability to manipulate him. Otters are an unpredictable lot. One thing I would never count on is for him to act in a predictable fashion.”

“Overconfidence on my part where Mudge is concerned isn’t something you need to worry yourself about, sir.”

They ascended a gentle slope, crossed a ravine, and climbed the heavily wooded far side. As they neared the crest of the ridge the chanting grew much louder. In addition to the voices they could now make out the sounds produced by individual drums, reed flutes, and something that sounded like an acerbic tambourine. Mudge motioned for silence, unnecessarily. It was clear they were very near the source of the singing. The time for conversation was past. It was time to listen and to observe.

Then they were able to see over the ridge. They found themselves looking down into a small valley. Set among the trees were semipermanent angular huts fashioned of twigs, branches, and mud. Fires danced in rock pits in front of two or three of the buildings. Laboriously gathered vegetation had been laid out to dry next to the flames. Berries of many kinds, nuts, and the thin, tender heart of some unknown plant were constantly being turned and patted clean by the females of several species.

“I see some ground squirrels,” Jon-Tom whispered. “I don’t recognize the ones with the small round ears.”

“Pikas.” Clothahump was squinting through his glasses. “The big fat ones are marmots. Notice their attire.”

Regardless of species, all were scantily clad in primitive garments. With their thick coats of fur, none required heavy outer clothing to protect them from the cold. Decorative skirts had been fashioned of tree bark pounded thin and softened with water. There was an extraordinary variety of headgear, ranging from simple headbands to elaborate tiaras of dried seeds and animal bones.

Away from the transitory village and off to the right, a group of musicians sat in a semicircle pounding or tootling or rattling their instruments. Seated in the semicircle opposing them were the chanters. These included all the senior males. They were dressed like warriors. In addition to their decorative necklaces and rings they wore headpieces made from the bleached, hollowed-out skulls of other creatures. Nor were all the gruesome chapeaus fashioned from the bones of prey animals.

“Crikey,” Mudge murmured in realization, “they’re a bloody lot o’ cannibals.”

In the center of the two semicircles was a wooden platform surmounted by a single post. A trio of barbarically clad pikas tended a fire beneath it. They were careful not to let the flames rise high enough to threaten the wood. The purpose of the blaze was to produce as much smoke as possible in order to make life as diflficult as possible for the single leather-clad individual who was tied to the pole above. This the pikas achieved by feeding the flames a steady diet of damp leaves and bark.

The unfortunate prisoner was wearing snakeskin-pants and shirt, leather boots, and fingerless leather gloves. Brass spikes studded his clothing from the top of the short boots to the broad shoulders. Jon-Tom was unable to tell just from looking whether these bits of metal were designed to serve for decoration or defense. Among^ some warlike people they did double duty.

Around a considerable waist the prisoner wore a brass-studded belt. A matching collar girdled his neck. He was about four and a half feet tall, though he appeared shorter because he was bent over as much as his bonds would permit, coughing and wheezing, unable to avoid inhaling the thick black smoke that rose from beneath him.

A hook hammered into one corner of the platform supported a large knapsack fashioned of the same black leather the prisoner wore. It bulged with unseen objects. Tied to it was a thin saber that was nearly as tall as the prisoner himself.

From time to time a light breeze would disturb the fog long enough for the hidden spectators to get a decent view of the prisoner. His face and large furry ears were instantly recognizable. Species identification was as easy as it was surprising.

“What’s he doing here?” Jon-Tom asked of no one in particular. “I thought koalas preferred tropical climes. I haven’t encountered one anywhere in the Bellwoods.”

“They are not frequent visitors to our part of the world, it is true.” Clothahump was straining for a better view of the prisoner. “Certainly this one is a long way from his home, though he is not dressed improperly for this climate.”

“The poor slob.” Dormas sniffed sympathetically. “Wonder what he did to get himself taken prisoner and subjected to such treatment?”

“Probably just trespassing.” Mudge started to inch his way backward. “Right. We’ve seen enough to satisfy any aberrant biological curiosity. Now ‘tis time to leave, right?”

“Wrong. Their intentions are pretty damn clear. They’re going to slowly suffocate him. No one deserves that kind of death.”

“ ‘Ow do you know that, mate? Maybe this one’s committed some kind o’ heinous crime against this lot o’ savages. Maybe ‘e’s been fairly judged and condemned. Wot ‘ave I told you about tryin’ to foist your moral precepts on other folk?” He nodded toward the encampment. “Look at ‘ow ‘e’s dressed, will you? A rough bloke for sure. Me, I says they deserve each other.”

“If he’s guilty of some crime, I’d like to know about it,” Jon-Tom responded. “If not, we’d be morally derelict to let him die slowly like that. I’d like to think a passing traveler might do as much for me someday.”

“Not bloody likely,” the otter grumbled. “I thought you’d been ‘ere long enough to know better than that, mate.”

“I would very much like to know his story,” Clothahump declared. “Not only how he comes to find himself in this dangerous situation but also how he comes to be in this lonely part of the world in the first place.”

“That’s fine, that is! I should’ve stayed back at the camp.”

“Mudge, where’s your concern for your fellow being?”

“In me left ‘ip pocket, where it belongs. As for that, those ‘appy dirge drippers down there are as much me fellows as that armored fat bear. I ain’t enamored o’ their table manners, but that doesn’t mean I’m about to risk me own arse to try and rescue some other fool’s.”

Jon-Tom turned his attention back to the encampment. It was clear that the prisoner was rapidly becoming too weak even to cough. “We have to do something.”

“Swell, guv. You an’ old rockback ‘ere ‘ave a stroll on in, untie the object o’ your pity, an’ announce to that angelic choir that you’re sorry but the party’s over and you’re all leavin’ together. I’m certain they’ll understand. They’ll be delighted—that they ‘ave three carcasses for the smoker.”

“Much as my curiosity—and my sense of justice, of course—draws me toward that poor unfortunate,” Clothahump said, “the water rat does have a point. We have a much greater responsibility. I do not see how we can risk everything to rescue this one individual.”

Jon-Tom considered a long moment before replying. “You’re right,sir. So is Mudge.”

The otter looked surprised but pleased. “About time you started showin’ some o’ the sense I’ve spent a year poundin’ into you, mate.”

“We can free him without risking a thing.” He started to unlimber his duar.

It did not take a wizard to divine Jon-Tom’s intentions. “Are you sure you want to try this, my boy? While it is true that this will not expose us to retaliation at first, it will not take long for those forest-dwellers below to locate us if you fail.”

“Don’t worry, sir. This one’s going to be a cinch.” He started tuning the instrument immediately. “I’ve got it all figured out. Most of the problems I have with my spellsinging come from my usually being rushed to come up with an appropriate song and then having to perform it before I’m completely ready. But I’ve had a chance to listen to these people and to observe them. I know just what I’m going to do, and I don’t see how I can fail.”

“Your confidence is reassuring and, I hope, not misplaced. Why are you so sure of yourself, my boy?”

Jon-Tom grinned at him. “Because I’m going to use their own music against them. I’ve got the basic rhythm of that chanting down pat. I’m going to do a rock version of their own hymn and add my own words.” He let his fingers fall across the familiar strings. “It’s pretty much all two-four time. I can play riffs off that in my sleep.”

“A fine idea, lad,” said Mudge. “I’ll just meet the lot o’ you back in camp, wot?” He turned and started back the way they’d come.

“Don’t mind him,” Dormas said, smiling at Jon-Tom. “I have confidence in you. Go on—blow the furry little shitheads back into the trees.”

“Well, I hope the results aren’t that severe.” He cleared his throat. He wanted only to free the prisoner, not perpetrate a massacre. He launched into his own interpretation of the mass chanting below, utilizing the duar at maximum volume and trying to sing the improvised song with as much grace and clarity as an Ozzy Osbourne.

The reaction was instantaneous. Sticks froze in the air halfway to drums. The hooting of flutes and the rattle of tambourines ceased. The chanting stopped as every eye in the valley below turned to stare up at the twisting, gyrating figure atop the ridge.

Jon-Tom had hoped that his version of the chant would paralyze the heavily armed warriors below. It did nothing of the kind. But while the tribefolk were not mesmerized by the heavy metal chords emanating from Jon-Tom’s instrument, neither did they come charging up the hill brandishing their spears and clubs.

Instead they started running. Not toward the singer but away from him. In every direction. As they ran they cast aside what weapons they held. The females joined them, kicking over cookpots and piles of laboriously gathered food.

Even the cubs scampered off in full retreat. Their wailing and crying was pitiful to hear. The warriors threw away their weapons because they needed their hands—to clasp over their ears or to fold them flat against the tops of their heads. Within a very short time the last inhabitant of the village had vanished among the trees. That was when a new voice rose above the silence below.

“For sanity’s sake stop that horrible noise and come and untie me! Or else put a spear through my heart and put me out of my suffering now!” The koala tried to add something more but broke down in a fit of coughing. The fire beneath him was still smoldering.

Abashed, Jon-Tom halted in mid-phrase and turned to regard his companions. Apparently the prisoner was not alone in his agony. Mudge had fallen against a tree and was only now removing his paws from his ears. Sorbl still had the tips of his wings pressed to his, while poor Dormas was gritting her teeth in pain. Somehow she had managed to fold the ends of her own ears in on themselves. Clothahump had retreated completely into the relative safety of his shell.

Now he emerged, popping legs and arms out first and his head last of all. His glasses hung askew from his beak. He straightened them as he walked up to Jon-Tom and put a hand on the spellsinger’s arm. The fingers were shaking slightly.

“Do as he says, my boy.”

Jon-Tom looked out into the fog. “What if they’re trying to sneak around behind us?”

“I do not believe they wish to remain anywhere in the immediate vicinity.”

“Then my spellsinging worked?”

The wizard cleared his throat delicately. “Let us just say that they did not find your interpretation of their ancient ceremonial to their liking.”

“Oh.” He paused thoughtfully, then added, “Neither did the rest of you, huh?”

“It held our attention. Let us leave it at that.”

“Aye,” said Mudge loudly, “like ‘avin’ an anvil dropped on your “ead.”

“The combination of an extremely primitive rhythmic line combined with what you refer to as your variety of contemporary music as rendered on the duar apparently possesses unexpected strengths.”

“Are you saying, sir, that no magic was involved? That it was my singing alone that made them want to flee?”

“No, mate. What ‘Is Sorcererness is sayin’ is that your singin’ o’ that old music and your new music made ‘em an’ the rest of us as well want to run screamin’ an’ pukin’ through the bloody forest.”

“I see.” He shrugged, took a deep breath. “Well, anyway, it worked.”

“Are you up there going to untie me or not?” The koala’s voice was surprisingly deep and resonant. It made him sound much more massive than he was.

“Bleedin’ impatient sort o’ chap, ain’t ‘e?” Mudge and Sorbl started down the hill. Jon-Tom waited until Mudge was out of earshot before turning to Clothahump again.

“What you’re really trying to say, sir, is that my singing hasn’t improved any.”

“I suppose it would not be terribly undiplomatic of me to admit that I do not think it has kept pace with your playing, my boy. There is, sadly, a quality, a timbre if you will, which renders your voice somewhat less than sweet-sounding to a sensitive ear. The native chant was not exactly melodious to begin with. Your singing backed by the playing of the duar did not exactly enhance what slight harmonious overtones it possessed.”

“That bad, huh?”

“I believe that for once the otter did not exaggerate in his description. Do not look so downcast. It is the results that matter. You are a spellsinger, not a bard.”

“I know, but I want to be a bard! I can’t help it if I don’t sound like Lionel Richie or Daltrey.”

“I am sorry, my boy, but it appears that you may have to settle for being a spellsinger.”

He ought to be pleased, he told himself as they waited for Mudge and Sorbl to return with the freed prisoner. He could do things no other musician could do. He could send his enemies fleeing in panic, could conjure up wonders, could move small mountains. The trouble was, what he wanted more than anything else was to be able to sing.

And he tried so hard to sound like a McCartney or Waite, only to end up producing a noise that must have resembled a cross between AC/DC’s Angus McKie and a sex-starved moose. Come to think of it, McKie and the moose didn’t sound all that different from one another.

He kept his eyes on the forest and fog enclosing them, his hands on the duar. Despite Clothahump’s reassurances, he wanted to be ready in the event that some brave warrior did try to slip in behind them.

Before he sang that chant again, though, he’d have to remember to warn his companions.

VIII

Mudge’s knife made short work of the ropes that secured the prisoner to the pole, while Sorbl used his beak on the smaller bonds that bound the koala’s wrists. Mudge had to catch him once he was freed, so cramped had his muscles become from disuse and the severe restraints. While the otter helped him up the slope, Sorbl plucked his knapsack from the corner platform post and flew back toward his master.

Eventually otter and koala reached the top of the ridge. The former prisoner was still coughing, though neither as violently nor as frequently as when he’d been tied to the post. It would take awhile before his lungs were completely cleared. His eyes were badly bloodshot and he wiped at them repeatedly. Mudge eased him over to a fallen log and gently sat him down.

He sat silently for a while, catching his breath and letting his lungs clear, only his large furry ears moving. The black nose was wet and running from having inhaled too much soot. Eventually he looked up at them and spoke again in that unexpectedly profound, deep voice.

“Thanks, friends. Not everyone would go out of their way like that to save a stranger, though I had a pretty good idea something like this was going to happen. Darned if I wasn’t starting to get a little worried, though. I’m obliged.”

“What do you mean you ‘had an idea something like this was going to happen’?” Jon-Tom said.

“We can talk about it later. Right now we’re still a mite too close to that fire for my comfort. Let’s walk the walk and I’ll talk the talk.” He rose, tilted his head back to gaze up at Jon-Tom. “You’re a prime specimen, aren’t you? Thanks for your musical aid. You won’t be insulted if I don’t ask for an encore.”

“If my music doesn’t please you, you can always go back down there and talk over your problems with your friends.” He smiled to show the koala that he was only responding in kind.

Their new acquaintance grinned back up at him. “No friends of mine down there. Heathens and barbarians, the cowardly sons of lizards. Hope they run off the end of the world. My name’s Colin. You can introduce yourselves later.” He took a step, stumbled. Mudge hastened to lend him a shoulder, but the koala waved him off.

“ ‘Predate the offer, otter, but I’ll make it on my own. You’ve risked enough on my behalf already. I’ll not be a burden to you.” He retrieved his knapsack and saber from Sorbl, shouldered the pack after sliding the saber into a special scabbard sewn to its back. Despite his short, thick arms he managed to slide the blade straight in without looking over his shoulder. Whoever this Colin was, Jon-Tom decided, he was no stranger to weaponry. If Jon-Tom had tried the same trick, he would have sliced himself from neck to coccyx.

Mudge led them back toward the campsite. “You know more about your ‘appy companions than we do,” he said to the koala. “Think they’ll try an’ follow us? The wizard ‘imself ‘ere says no.”

“Wizard, huh?” Colin gave Clothahump a perfunctory nod, polite but in no way condescending, respectful without being obsequious. “I think he’s right. Heck, it’ll take the bravest among them half a day just to decide to slow down.” Everyone laughed but Jon-Tom. He managed a weak smile.

They were halfway back to the camp when Colin called a halt. “We’ll take a minute here to make sure they don’t follow us.” He turned his back to Jon-Tom. “Upper compartment, left side. A small green bottle. Take care. They threw my kit around quite a bit, and I don’t know what’s broke and what’s intact.”

An uncertain Jon-Tom unsnapped the pack, located the bottle in question, and handed it to its owner. The stopper was loose but still in place. Colin held it up to the fog-diffused light, examined it critically for a moment, then grunted and began searching the ground around them.

“We need some good-sized branches with the needles still on them.” Jon-Tom bristled at being ordered around by someone they’d just had to rescue, but he kept silent as he helped the koala and Mudge collect several healthy evergreen boughs.

“Now what? They’re hardly big enough to hide behind,”

he snapped.

There was a jauntiness to the koala’s manner and a twinkle in his eye that defused any real anger on Jon-Tom’s part. “That’s what you think, man.”

After sprinkling a few drops of the colorless liquid on each branch, he had Jon-Tom replace it in his knapsack. The powerful odor made Jon-Tom’s nostrils flare, even at a distance.

“Do like so,” Colin instructed them. Jon-Tom and Dormas brought up the rear, the three of them sweeping up their footsteps with the branches. Eventually they tossed the boughs aside.

Mudge’s sensitive nose was running, and he wiped at it continuously. “Blimey, mate, wot were in that bottle, anyway?”

“Intensely concentrated oil of eucalyptus,” Colin informed him. “If they do try to track us, they’ll sniff up a nice healthy whiff of that stuff and spend the rest of the day sneezing themselves silly.” He grinned first at Mudge, then up at Jon-Tom.

An interesting character, and that was an understatement, Jon-Tom told himself as he considered their stocky new companion. Not gruff exactly but not given to small talk, either. Straightforward and no-nonsense. He’d be able to find his own way back to civilization without much trouble.

As it turned out, however, that parting of the ways was not to take place for some time yet. As they paused in the shelter of a rake tree later that day, they discovered that they shared something in common with the koala besides a dislike of barbaric hospitality.

He was sitting against the thick, deeply scarred bole, chatting with Sorbl and Dormas. Clothahump was off by himself, meditating within his shell, visiting that sorcerous never-never land that only he could enter. It reminded Jon-Tom of hibernation. The wizard called it taking a metaphysical sighting. He was, he had explained on more than one such occasion, checking their position by judging his relationship to certain stars. When Jon-Tom had protested that it was absurd to imagine one small individual having a personal relationship with several incredibly distant suns, Clothahump had informed him that it depended upon the mental size of the individual in question, not his physical stature. As a result, Jon-Tom was half convinced that the turtle was bluffing him. But it did not make him feel any bigger.

He was sitting slightly away from the tree, using the usually concealed blade of his ramwood staff to whittle at a chunk of dead pine. Wood and grain fascinated him. Maybe he ought to give up the idea of being either a lawyer or a rock guitarist and settle for a contemplative life of carving. Not a very practical vocation to try to make a living at where he came from, he reflected. If he’d lived in greater Los Angeles, Gepetto would doubtless have been forced to go on welfare.

Footsteps sounded nearby. He looked up to see Mudge approaching. The otter wore his usual expression of concern.

“Wot say you, mate?”

Jon-Tom glanced skyward. They had long since climbed out of the fog, and the sky overhead was a brilliant, pristine blue. “Everything seems to be going pretty good, Mudge. We’re not being followed, we’ve managed to rescue a fellow traveler in need, and we haven’t suffered a perturbation in days.”

“Aye, seems as though our luck ‘as changed, wot? That’s just wot I were wonderin’ about.” As he spoke he kept glancing back toward the tree, to where Colin was laughing and joking with Sorbl and Donnas. “ ‘Asn’t the coincidence struck you?”

“To what coincidence do you refer?” He sighed. The otter’s capacity for paranoia was exceeded only by his capacity for drinking, eating, and wenching.

“You just think on it a minute, mate. I’ll spell it out for you. Don’t want you to think I’m jumpin’ to conclusions or nothin’.”

“What, you, jump to conclusions? Why would I ever think that?”

“Try an’ stifle the sarcasm a moment and look at this thing objectively, mate. ‘Ere we are trippin’ merrily along, lookin’ like ourselves for a change instead o’ a bunch o’ purple bugs or somethin’, when we ‘ear this chantin’ and follow it to find this Colin chap all bound up an’ in the process o’ bein’ smoked for a holiday roast by a bunch o’ savages. Wot does that suggest to you?”

“That we did our good deed for the day and that I don’t have the faintest idea what you’re getting at.”

“I’ll try an’ be more specific. We’ve no way of knowin’ for ‘ow long this Colin was a prisoner. Might’ve been for an hour, might maybe ‘ave been for a day. But just suppose ‘e’d been stuck down there for several days. Tis been several days exactly since the last bad perturbation. Maybe whoever or wotever ‘as imprisoned this ‘ere perambulator can’t use it on us anymore. Maybe we’re too close to ‘ome or somethin’. So wot might ‘e do, especially if ‘e’s gettin’ worried about us? Mightn’t ‘e look for some other, subtler way o’ stoppin’ us? Maybe by gettin’ us off our guard first?”

It didn’t take a two-hundred-year-old wizard to see what the otter was hinting at. “You’re reaching, Mudge. In the first place, there was no guarantee that we would have taken the risk of rescuing Colin. In the second, distance has no eifect on the perambulator’s perturbing effects. You can’t be too close to be affected, and you can’t get far enough away to escape it. And lastly, Colin just doesn’t seem the type an insane sorcerer would choose for a servant. He’s too independent. That’s not a put-on. It’s the soul of his personality.”

“Then it don’t strike you as suspicious that in this dangerous and cold northern land where we ain’t encountered so much as a decent restaurant for days, we suddenly ‘ave a run-in with someone whose species prefers much warmer country? Not to mention that ‘e’s runnin’ around ‘ere all by ‘is lonesome.”

“Of course, I’m curious as to what he’s doing up here. He’s probably just as curious about us.”

“Then why ain’t ‘e asked about it? And why ain’t he told us what ‘e’s doin’ “ere?”

“Maybe,” Jon-Tom suggested, “it’s none of our business.”

“Cor, don’t ‘and me that one, mate! We saved ‘im from the cook fire, if ‘e is as independent as you think. ‘E owes us an explanation.”

“What if he’s on some kind of private pilgrimage, something religious, say?”

“Wot, ‘im? The wanderin’ preacher o’ the Church o’ Leather and Studs? Now who’s reachin’, mate?”

“I think you’re way off base, Mudge. But if it’s troubling you that much, why don’t you ask him what he’s doing here?”

“Uh, well, you see, lad, you’re so much better versed in the diplomatic arts that I, I was kind o’ ‘opin’ that you’d put the question to ‘im.”

“I see. Because I’m more diplomatic, is that it?” The otter nodded. “Not because if he takes offense, it’ll be me he runs through with that saber of his?”

The otter looked outraged. “ ‘Ow could you think such a thing o’ me, mate?”

“I don’t know.” Jon-Tom put his whittling aside as he rose. “Repeated experience, maybe.”

Mudge sidled up close. “ ‘E’s not wearin’ that long sword just now, but we’d best keep an eye on that pack o’ ‘is.”

Jon-Tom frowned. “The knapsack? Why?”

“You just ‘aven’t learned much about observation, ‘ave you? ‘Aven’t you noticed ‘ow protective ‘e is of it? No tellin’ wot ‘e’s got inside besides a bottle full o’ stink-oil.”

That much was true. Colin had been excessively protective of the pack, to the point of refusing to let Dormas carry it for him until he’d fully recovered from the effects of his near suffocation. He insisted on carrying it himself, despite the fact that he was still coughing and choking from time to time. The more Jon-Tom thought about it, the more peculiar the koala’s presence and actions seemed. He broke off that unpleasant train of thought abruptly.

“There you go, making me paranoid like you.”

“A little ‘ealthy paranoia can add ten years to your life, mate. You can ‘andle it. I’ve seen you in action. ‘Tis your solicitor’s training. Me, I’d just make ‘im mad, most likely.

But not you. Don’t go accusin’ ‘im o’ nothin’, or challengin’ ‘im. Just work it into the conversation, like. I’ll be right behind you if ‘e takes offense.”

“You’re such a comfort to me, Mudge.”

“Wot are friends for, lad?”

With Mudge sauntering along beside him Jon-Tom strode into the shade of the tree. The otter bent to inspect the grass, then turned to work his way behind the seated koala, trying to render his movements as inconspicuous as possible.

Not inconspicuously enough, apparently, for as experienced a fighter as Colin to let it pass without notice. He said nothing, but he put down the cup he’d been sipping from so he would have both hands free. He did not turn to look at Mudge but remained aware of the otter’s position nonetheless.

Dormas was talking while Sorbl listened from his perch on a low-hanging branch. The owl was standing on one leg. Now he shifted to the other, a habit he’d picked up from a friend of his, a member of the stork family.

Dormas looked over at Jon-Tom. “We were just talking about the country to the east of here. Colin tells me there are high mountains, then open plains before you get to his home, which lies farther south.”

Mudge picked up a seed cone, inspected it with apparent indifference. “You’ve come quite a distance, then.”

“A long ways, yes,” Colin replied. “Considerably farther than the rest of you.”

Jon-Tom rubbed his chin. “You know, we don’t mean to pry, but it wouldn’t be natural for us not to wonder what someone like you is doing up in country like this, so far from the kind of terrain you’d be likely to find agreeable, and traveling by yourself as well.”

“I like to travel,” Colin told him. “Since not many of my fellows like to, I’m forced to travel alone.”

“I see.” Silence.

Mudge looked over at Jon-Tom and, when nothing else was forthcoming, said exasperatedly, “Well, go on, mate!”

“Go on where, Mudge?”

The otter spat into the grass, moved to confront the koala. “So you like to travel, wot? Funny sort o’ country to be travelin’ in. This ain’t exactly a tourist mecca up ‘ere, and the local yokels not wot I’d call ‘ospitable. You couldn’t ‘ave any other business ‘ere besides just travelin’, now could you?”

“What sort of business could one have in this empty land?”

“Couldn’t o’ put it better meself.” Mudge’s fingers felt for the hilt of his short sword. “Come on now, mate. You don’t expect us to believe you’ve come to this part o’ the world just to ‘ave a look-see at the scenery?”

“Why not? Isn’t that what you’re doing? You don’t seem equipped for anything else.”

“Now ‘ow would you know wot sort o’ equipment we might be carryin’?”

A slight smile creased the koala’s broad face. “I make it my business to notice such things.”

“Do you, now? That brings us back to the nature o’ your mysterious business again. We can’t seem to get away from that, can we?” His fingers locked around the sword hilt.

Colin let his eyes drop to Mudge’s waist. “No need to get excited, pilgrim.” He let his gaze flick over the otter’s face, then Jon-Tom’s and Dormas’s. “Right. I’ll tell you, but you aren’t going to believe me.”

“Try us.” Mudge smiled wolfishly at him.

The koala’s voice grew reminiscent. “This all started many months ago. Longer than I care to think. I was hard at work at my true profession—”

Jon-Tom interrupted him. “You have more than one profession?”

“Two, yes. The first is”—and here he stared hard at Mudge— “that of bodyguard. That’s how I support myself. I’m pretty good at it.” The otter’s hand moved away from the handle of his sword. “But it’s not my true profession, my real calling. Go ahead and laugh if you will, but I am a caster of runes.”

“What’s that?” said a new voice, sounding surprised. Everyone looked to their left. Clothahump had emerged from the isolation of his self-imposed trance. Now he blinked, stretching and yawning as he came out of his shell. He stuck out his legs, stood, and walked over to join the rest of them, wiping at his eyes with one hand. “A rune-caster, you say?”

“I say.” Colin turned and reached for his knapsack. Jon-Tom and Mudge tensed, but all the koala extracted was a small sack of brown leather secured at the top with an intricate knot. Several arcane symbols decorated the sides of the sack, having been stitched in with heavy silver thread. Jon-Tom recognized none of them.

“The tools of the trade,” the koala explained.

“I can see why you’d chose work as a bodyguard.” Mudge sniffed derisively. “Throwin’ runes ain’t much of a profession. Some would say ‘tis more in the nature of a con game.”

The koala stiffened slightly, and when he next spoke, there was an edge to his voice. “There are more charlatans than truth-speakers who throw, that much is true. I am no charlatan. Anyone can cast. It’s the reading that requires skill. I have practiced for many years, have thrown thousands of times. I was apprentice to Solace Longrush the quokka.”

“I know that name. I thought he was dead,” Clothahump murmured.

“He is. Died ten years ago. Was casting one day, saw his own death in the runes, gathered everything up, put his house in order, walked to the cemetery he’d chosen, and fell right over into an open grave. Damnedest thing you ever saw.” He jiggled the leather bag. Faint clinking noises could be heard as small objects within bounced oif one another. “His runes. He left them to me.”

“That’s why you’re so protective of your gear,” Jon-Tom said, and was rewarded with a nod. “I’ve never met a rune-caster before. What do you cast for?”

“Whether someone should make a left turn or go right, whether or not a marriage is likely to succeed, when and where to plant what kinds of crops, that sort of thing. Pays the bills.” He leaned forward. “But what Solace Longrush did that no other rune-caster could do, and what I’ve tried to learn from him, is how to predict the future.”

Mudge laughed without shame: a brisk, sharp, barking sound. Dormas let out a loud snort. Sorbl fought back a smile of his own.

“Told you that you wouldn’t believe me.” The koala did not appear miffed by their reaction. Undoubtedly he was used to skepticism.

As soon as Colin had made his confession Jon-Tom had turned to look at Clothahump. The wizard was neither laughing nor smiling. Instead he was studying their guest with utter seriousness.

“And how,” he inquired, “does practicing your true profession bring you to this isolated part of the world?”

“Like I said, I’ve been traveling for many, many months. What started me on my journey was a cast I was making for a local farmer. He wanted me to find the best place on his land to dig a new well. I had thrown six times and thought I had a pretty good spot picked out for him, but I pride myself on being thorough and giving value for money. So I threw a seventh and last time.” He swallowed. “Ten runes lined up in a pattern I’d never seen before. I gave the farmer his location and rushed off to the local Sorcerer’s Guild library, spent hours trying to find a schematic that resembled the pattern I’d thrown. Finally did.”

“And?” Jon-Tom prompted him anxiously, by now thoroughly engrossed in the koala’s tale.

“The pattern signified an imminent world change. But not an immediate one. The change indicated was the kind that takes place in stages, each one more severe than the next. It was also clear that if these gradual changes were not stopped, they were going to culminate in a final change of apocalyptic proportions.”

“The pattern did not by any chance happen to suggest the nature of this final change?” Clothahump asked him.

“I’m not sure. Patterns are precise, but reading is not an exact science. As near as I could tell, though, it had something to do with the size of the sun.”

“Size?” Mudge squeaked.

Colin nodded somberly. “The pattern suggested intensifying local changes, ending in an abrupt expansion of the sun to many times its present size. I think a change like that would make us long to stand above something as chilly as the savage’s fire.”

“Nova.” Jon-Tom squinted through the branches at the placid midday sun above. “A perturbation strong enough to affect the helium-fusion cycle. It would make the sun go nova. I wonder if the sun in my own world would be affected?”

“Wot’s all this rot?” Mudge muttered. “Wot’s a bloomin’ nova and wot’s it ‘ave to do with the sun, and wotever it is, we’ve only this chap’s word for it, anyways. And wot’s it got to do with the question?”

“That’s why I’m here. To see if I can’t prevent that cataclysmic change. The runes didn’t tell me how it could be done, but they showed me where it would have to be accomplished. I’m on my way there.” He mistook their silence for disbelief. “I told you you wouldn’t believe me.”

“On the contrary,” Clothahump told him quietly, “we believe you more man you believe yourself. Because, you see, the answer to our question is also the answer to yours. We are bent on the same task. By different methods we come to this place, intent upon achieving the same end.”

Colin regarded each of them in turn, silently, seeing the truth in their faces. “So that’s it. The runes were more thorough than I thought. I did not expect the help they predicted to appear so soon.”

“Now ‘old on a minimum, mate,” Mudge urged him. “If anyone’s goin’ to ‘elp anyone ‘ere, ‘tis you who are bound to ‘elp us.”

“It doesn’t matter, Mudge,” Jon-Tom told him irritably. “We’re all here for the same reason.”

“True.” The koala sounded disappointed. “The runes were thorough but not accurate. As I read them they spoke of aid in the form of an army of several thousand seasoned warriors.” He shook off his disappointment. “But if I’m to have the company of a quintet of oddities instead, so be it.”

Mudge made a sound low in his throat. “Just who are you callin’ an oddity, fat face?”

“Quiet, river rat.” Clothahump turned back to Colin. “Then your reading of the runes is not always precise?”

“I’m afraid not. It’s the nature of runes. You can’t make perfect predictions with imperfect materials, and there’s no such thing as a perfect rune. Half a year back I lost two months traveling in the wrong direction before I knew I was off on the wrong track.”

“That’s all right.” Jon-Tom was naturally sympathetic. “I’m a spellsinger myself, and there’ve been one or two occasions when the results of my spellsinging were other than what I intended.” He immediately turned a warning look on Mudge, but the otter’s thoughts were elsewhere, and he missed the opportunity to insert the expected sarcastic comment.

“We shall help one another,” Clothahump announced firmly. “Your company and what assistance you can provide will be welcome. I know what is causing these changes and approximately where it is located. By cooperating we may define our approach more accurately.”

It was clear that Colin was impressed. He glanced up at Jon-Tom. “Tell me, tall man, does he speak the truth?”

“Most of the time. This time.”

“Casting is something I have never practiced,” the wizard was saying, “because of its notorious inaccuracy. But it may be that you will have the chance to supplement our collective abilities when such aid is needed most. In any event, a strong sword arm is always welcome in such an enterprise as this. We will seek to resolve this danger together.”

“I’ll be glad of the company. We koalas are sociable types. Traveling solo hasn’t been easy.” He hesitated. “Not appearing to contradict you, old one, but by the reading, we haven’t much time left. We may not get there in time.”

“We may not get there at all,” Clothahump admitted, “but it is a waste of time to wonder about time. With due respect to your talent, where a perambulator is involved, time itself is mutable. We may have more time left to us than your reading would lead you to believe.”

“I hope you’re right and I’m wrong.”

Clothahump lifted his gaze past them, toward the lower slopes of the mountains that defined the northern horizon. “My greatest fear at this moment is that despite his madness, whoever has trapped the perambulator in this world is beginning to learn how to manipulate those perturbations.”

“That might not be all bad,” Jon-Tom commented. “If he learns how to do that, maybe he can keep the sun from going nova.”

“Should he want to.”

“But if that happens, then he’ll be killed along with everyone else. That’s—”

“Crazy. Precisely, my boy. If the imprisoner is both mad and unhappy, what better solution than suicide on a grandiose scale? My immediate concern is that we may see perturbations directed at us specifically. It seems incredible but it cannot be ruled out.”

“You’re not bein’ very reassurin, Your Masterness.”

“The truth rarely is, Mudge.”

“Truth. Bleedin’ slippery stuff. We still ain’t ‘ad no proof that you’re anything more than a sack o’ ‘ot air, big-ears.”

Colin’s eyes narrowed, and he put his hand on his sword. “You calling me a liar, pilgrim?”

“Don’t try that shit on me, mate. I believe you can ‘andle that sword. That ain’t wot we need proof of.” He eyed his companions. “Listen, you gulliable lot, don’t you want some proof this bloke ain’t workin’ for the one whose arse we’re after before we invite ‘im to share our camp?”

“Mudge, sometimes you—” Jon-Tom started to say, but Colin raised a hand to cut him off.

“No. The otter’s right. Impolite, but right. You deserve more conclusive proof than fast talk.” He placed the leather sack on the ground in front of him and knelt. Jon-Tom paid close attention but for the life of him couldn’t discern how the koala unfastened the incredibly complex series of knots so quickly. Making certain the drawstrings were stretched out straight, Colin carefully unfolded the leathern square.

The resultant revelation was something of a disappointment. Jon-Tom didn’t know what to expect: brilliantly faceted gemstones perhaps or eerily glowing bits of metal. What the pouch contained was a few pieces of wood, some colored stones and old bones, and a few strips of dyed cloth.

“That’s it?” Mudge wanted to know.

“Have you ever seen a set of runes before, otter? Not imitations or fakes, but the real things? Some of these have been handed down from caster to caster.” He leaned forward to nudge a few of the pieces with a finger. “These here are hundreds of years old.”

“I can smell the power.” Clothahump waddled over and asked Colin to identify each rune in detail. Meanwhile Mudge eased over next to Jon-Tom.

“You know, mate, this ‘ere meetin’ may turn out to ‘ave beneficial consequences after all.”

“It certainly will, if Colin’s telling the truth about his abilities.”

“No, no, not that.” The otter looked exasperated, then excited. “I mean, ‘ave a look at that junk! I can see meself now.” The otter’s mental wlieels were spinning fast. “All I’ve got to do when we gets back to civilization is trip on down to the local dump and fill me up a little leather bag with the first interestin’ crap I stumble over. Then I can go around predictin’ the future. The only thing wot puzzles me is ‘ow I never thought of it before.”

“Mudge, this isn’t a scam. This is for real.”

“Scam, reality, wot’s the difference? The whole universe is a scam, perpetrated by some supreme deity, maybe. ‘Tis one’s perception of it that matters. Anyway, if a lot o’ soft-’eaded twits take me for a rune-caster, who am I to dispute their opinions? I’d ‘urt their feelin’s by confessing, I would. Folks don’t care whether a prediction of the future is accurate or not. They just want someone to tell ‘em wot to do so they won’t ‘ave to think. Besides, I’ll only make predictions about wot I’m expert at: sex an’ money.”

“Sex and money, sex and money. What are you going to think about when you reach a ripe old age, Mudge? Assuming you ever do reach a ripe old age, about which achievement I have serious doubts.”

The otter solemnly raised one paw. “I’ll change me ways then, mate. Despite wot you might think, I’ve given that day plenty o’ thought. You’ll see. When I’m bent over an’ white-whiskered, with a streak o’ silver down me back, it’ll be different. I’ll spend all me time thinkin’ about money an’ sex.”

“I don’t know why, but that confession doesn’t surprise me.” He motioned for the otter to be quiet. Colin had finished talking to Clothahump. Now it was the koala’s turn to raise a commanding paw.

“Silence, please.”

“Cheeky bugger, I’ll give ‘im that,” Mudge whispered. Jon-Tom made shushing motions.

Colin had closed his eyes and was mumbling something under his breath. Abruptly a breeze sprang up where there had been no breeze. It whistled in from the east, swirling around them, ruffling Dormas’s mane and Jon-Tom’s long hair. The wind changed direction repeatedly, as though confused and nervous, a zephyr that had lost its way.

Still murmuring in a guttural singsong, Colin leaned forward to pick up the unimpressive fragments of stone and leather and wood in both paws. Jon-Tom noticed his impressive claws. Keeping the runes cupped in his hands, the koala continued his indecipherable chant. Clothahump was looking on and nodding slowly, though whether he recognized some of what the koala was saying or was merely offering him encouragement, Jon-Tom could not say.

No glowing points of light, no gneechees appeared. This was a different kind of magic, ancient and simple, as alien to Jon-Tom as Republican economic policy. Going by Colin’s own description, it was as much luck as magic,

The fur rose on the back of the koala’s head. The fringe lining those oversize ears seemed to quiver as if with an electric charge. Colin concluded his incantation. Then he simply held his paws out over the leather square and opened them. There was no skill involved that Jon-Tom could see. The koala simply opened his paws and let the double handful drop.

The stones and bones bounced a couple of times before coming to rest on the leather, which Jon-Tom could now see was crisscrossed with a network of fine lines that had been etched into the fabric by some kind of needle-tipped awl or knife.

Colin inhaled deeply, opened his eyes, and leaned forward to scrutinize the results of his casting. He did not take his eyes from the runes, did not even blink. Such concentration was frightening. Though he tried not to show it, it was evident that even Mudge was impressed.

Colin took another deep breath, then several short ones. Sitting back on his haunches, he put both paws on his leather-covered knees.

“What’re you trying to find out?” Dormas finally asked him.

“I wasn’t casting for anything particular. Many times the throw is uninformative. Other times it results in a pattern you can’t trust. I hope that’s the case with this one.”

“Why?” Jon-Tom was suddenly concerned. “What does it say?”

There was a genuine sadness in the koala’s eyes. They shifted from Jon-Tom to the otter standing next to him. “My good friend Mudge, if this pattern is accurate, you have less than thirty seconds to live.”

IX

There was dead silence from the little cluster of onlookers. Mudge could only gape at the stranger in their midst. How did one react to a pronouncement like that? Finally the otter tried to smile. He worked at it as hard as he could, but for once that ready grin failed to materialize.

“You’re tryin’ to scare me, you sorry sod. You’re tryin’ to scare all of us so we won’t find you out for the rhummy-mugger you are. Well, you can’t fool me. I don’t believe in your bag o’ bones for a minute, I don’t.” He spat at the ground, barely missing the leather and its mute contents. Looking around warily, he began backing away from the silent, sorrowful Colin.

“I wish it might’ve beertOtherwise,” the koala apologized. “There’s no predicting what the runes will say.”

“Say? That pile o’ shit can’t say boo. ‘Tis a lot o’ garbage, Jon-Tom.” Jon-Tom was staring wordlessly at his friend. “Wot ‘e says as well as wot ‘e’s tossin’ around. Just garbage. Tell me ‘tis garbage, Your Wizardship.”

Clothahump watched the retreating otter with a maddeningly clinical eye, then spoke to the caster. “By what means?”

Colin looked back at the motionless runes. “Doesn’t say, old one.”

“ ‘Tis garbage, it is!” The otter’s voice rose uncontrollably. “Garbage and a bloody lie!” He was glancing around nervously, as though he expected to be attacked at any moment. “Fakery and trickery, I ought to know. The fat bear’s a con artist. There’s more snow in ‘is spiel than crowns those mountains up ahead. Oh, you’re slick, you* bloated fuzzball” —he sneered at Colin—”real slick. But you can’t fool old Mudge. No one can predict the future. No one! And if anyone could, they wouldn’t do it by dumpin’ a pawful o’ junk on the ground an’ starin’ at it while belching!” He rapped his fist against his chest.

“I’m as ‘ealthy as ever me was, surrounded by me good friends, an’ there’s nothin’ in the world I’m afraid of, nothin’ that can touch me, nothin’ that can—”

He was interrupted by a loud cracking sound. Jon-Tom jumped involuntarily while Dormas backed up fast. Clothahump and Colin did not move. Only Sorbl’s marvelous eyes and reflexes, even though slightly numbed by his daily intake of alcohol, enabled him to react fast enough to shout a warning. He gestured with a wing and yelled, “Look out!”

Mudge whirled, eyes wide. Very few creatures can move as fast as an otter. Even so, he wasn’t fast enough.

The huge, rotten branch fell from near the top of the big fir he’d backed beneath, striking him on the back of the head and landing with a tremendous crash. Broken sub-branches, leaves, and dead twigs went flying in all directions. The fall was loud enough to echo several times off the surrounding hillsides. Everyone rushed toward the fallen otter except Clothahump. The wizard stood close by the rune-caster’s tools and looked on curiously.

“Most interesting,” he murmured to no one in particular.

“I was half inclined to agree with the otter’s charges of fakery, having known a multitude of witches and warlocks, sorcerers and spellsingers, and so-called casters but never one who actually could predict the future.”

“You still don’t!” Jon-Tom yelled joyfully back to him as he bent over the otter’s prone form. Mudge’s feathered cap had been knocked off by the impact. It lay several feet away. Blood stained the fur on the back of the otter’s skull. But appearances, to Jon-Tom’s great relief, were deceiving.

“He’s breathing. Sorbl, your hearing’s better than any of ours.”

The owl nodded and put a pointed ear against the otter’s chest. When he looked up at the rest of them, he was smiling knowingly. “Beating like a celibate’s after a four-day orgy. He’s no more dead than I am.”

“Let me have a look.” Colin slipped both arms under Mudge. Showing off the considerable strength in his compact body, he easily carried the unconscious otter back to where they’d been sitting when the branch had fallen. Jon-Tom hunted through the medicine pack on Dormas’s back and brought out a narrow bottle full of golden liquid.

“Really,” said a distressed Sorbl, smacking his beak, “couldn’t you make do with some of the cheaper brand, Jon-Tom?”

“Sorbl! I’m surprised at you!”

“I mean,” the owl muttered, “it’s not as if he’s dead or anything.”

What a crew, Jon-Tom mused as he bent over the motionless otter and let a few potent drops tumble into the open mouth. Mudge coughed, his body spasmed, a second cough, and he was sitting up sputtering. Jon-Tom was the first thing he saw.

“Wot are you tryin’ to do, mate, drown me? Ohhhh.” Gingerly he touched the back of his head. “Crikey! It feels like somebody dropped a bloomin’ tree on me.”

“Close enough, even if it wasn’t blooming,” Jon-Tom told him. Indeed, the branch that had struck the otter only a glancing blow was bigger in circumference than many of the smaller trees surrounding them.

“Just nicked you, pilgrim.” Colin was inspecting the back of the otter’s head. “Fortunately. Like I said, rune reading’s not a precise art.”

“I’ll give you a dose o’ precise, you walkin’ ‘airball.” He tried to lunge at the koala. The pain in his head held him back. When he touched himself again, his hand came away covered in crimson. “I’m bleedin’ to death while you sit there and lecture me.”

“Quit whining,” Dormas snapped. “Jon-Tom, there are bandages in the bottom of the medicine kit.” He nodded, rummaged around until he located a roll of sterilized linen, then began wrapping it around the otter’s head.

“Ow! Take it easy back there, mate. That’s no steak you’re wrappin’, you know.”

“I’m being as gentle as I can, Mudge.”

“Likely, that is.” He glared at Colin. “I ain’t sure if I buy your whole story, guv’nor, but you’ve scored a point or two in its favor, that’s certain.”

Colin sniffed. “You could have been killed, you poor excuse for a coat. I’d think you’d be giving thanks.”

“You do, do you? If you’re such a hotsy-totsy reader o’ the future, ‘ow come you didn’t see that branch fixin’ to break? ‘Ow do we know you didn’t plan it that way?”

“I don’t care for your implications, pilgrim. That blow’s affected your reasoning. Or maybe it hasn’t. In any case, how could I have known that you’d react to my prediction by retreating right underneath that tree?”

“Use your head, Mudge,” Jon-Tom admonished him.

“Not right now, mate, if you don’t mind. I admit I ain’t figured that one out yet.”

“That’s about enough, water rat,” said Dormas firmly.

“You’re pissing in the wind. Mr. Colin strikes me as a perfect gentleman. We should be glad to have him along.”

“Speak for yourself, four-legs.”

“Mudge, think a minute.” Jon-Tom split the end of the bandage and began knotting it around the otter’s forehead. “If Colin wanted to kill you, he could have laughed at you when the branch hit you on the head. He didn’t. His first reaction was identical to ours: He ran to try to help you.”

“You bloody solicitors are all alike, just stinkin’ of logic an’ reasonableness. I’ve about ‘ad me fill of it—ouch, damn it!”

“If you’d give your mouth a rest, your jaw muscles wouldn’t put so much of a strain on the back of your head.” He tied the knot firmly. “There. I thought that branch might’ve knocked some sense into you. I guess it would take a giant sequoia.”

“What might that be?” Clothahump inquired.

“An extremely large tree that comes from my world. Bigger than anything you’ve ever seen.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Once, in my younger days when I was traveling in southern lands, I—’

“If you don’t mind,” said Mudge, “could we drop the botanical travelogue until we see if me ‘ead’s goin’ to fall off?”

“I do not think we need fear for the integrity of your skull, Mudge, as opposed to, say, its contents.” Clothahump was regarding the injured otter benignly. “As has been demonstrated on more than one occasion, it is unquestionably the strongest part of your anatomy, having both the impermeability and density of solid lead.”

“Right. ‘Ere I lie, wounded near to death, an’ instead o’ sympathy an’ compassion, I get insults.”

“You could be dead, Mudge,” Jon-Tom told him again. “Colin’s reading might have been completely, instead of partially, accurate.”

“Like your spellsingin’. Much more o’ that kind o’ good fortune an’ I’ll save the gods the trouble by cuttin’ me own throat.”

Colin was recovering his runes, packing them just so in the center of the leather square. “Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I shouldn’t have cast and, having cast, should have said nothing.”

“No. It wouldn’t have mattered,” Jon-Tom told him. “And I guess we were all a little bit suspicous of you.”

Colin pulled the four corners of the leather together and secured them with his intricate series of knots. “It’s a sad day when a koala’s word is no longer believed.”

“With the fate of an unknown portion of the cosmos at stake,” Clothahump said, “you must concede a little caution on our part.”

“Your caution? What about me? What proof do I have that you’re a wizard or that the tall, bald body is a spellsinger?”

“I drove off your captors, remember?”

“I remember hearing a sound so awful, it made me wish for the fire at the time. That’s not magic, that’s torture.”

It was worth the bruise to Jon-Tom’s ego to hear Mudge laugh again.

“So I don’t sound like Nat King Cole, but I’m not that bad.”

Clothahump frowned. “I do not recognize the line. What kingdom does he reign over?”

“The kingdom of scat,” Jon-Tom replied impatiently. “Look, are we in a hurry or not?”

“We are indeed. We should move.”

“Sure, why not?” groused Mudge. “The sooner we get there, the sooner we’ll all be lyin’ quiet in our graves. Fine bunch to be off tryin’ to save the world! A wizard who knows where the enemy lies, more or less. A reader o’ the future who knows wot’s goin’ to ‘appen, more or less. An’ let’s not forget a spellsinger who can conjure up the means to defend us from wotever we may face—more or less. ‘Ow could a poor tagalong like me be anything but confident about the outcome?”

“That’s the spirit, Mudge,” Jon-Tom told him. “It’s good to know that if we get overconfident about anything, you’ll be right there with your undying pessimism to get us back on track.”

“You can be sure o’ that, mate.” He scanned the ground nearby. “Hey, where’s me cap?”

“I’ll get it.” Sorbl half flew, half hopped over to the giant fir, hunted around the sides of the fallen branch for a moment, then returned with something limp and green hi his beak. This he passed to Mudge.

“Sorry. I’m afraid it was partly under the branch. Better it than you.”

Mudge held the smashed fragment of green felt out in front of him. “Now, ain’t that a sorry sight?” He ran two fingers along the sides of the single feather, trying to fluff it out. “A quetzal tail plume, bought at the top o’ the matin’ season too. Do you ‘ave any idea ‘ow much a quetzal charges for one o’ its mating plumes?”

“I’m surprised he would sell one,” Colin commented.

“ ‘E were broker than ‘e were ‘orny,” Mudge explained. “Wearin’ one’s supposed to confer exceptional virility and stamina on the part o’ the wearer—not that I believe in any o’ those primitive arboreal’s superstitions, o’ course.”

“Then why are you crying?” Jon-Tom asked him.

“Cryin”? Wot, me? Cor, I’m just washin’ out me eyes. ‘Tis just that if one did ‘appen to believe in those superstitions, well, the condition o’ one’s works is supposedly dependent on the condition o’ the feather.”

“Oh. Well, there aren’t any ladies around here to court in any event.”

“And a damn good thing too.” Sadly the otter plucked the demolished feather from his cap and tossed it aside. “Maybe ‘tis for the best. I’m not likely to be distracted along the way—not that we’re likely to encounter any worthwhile distractions.”

“So that’s settled.” Jon-Tom hefted his pack. “Let’s be going. Now, Mudge. Mudge? Come on.”

But the otter was holding back, sampling the air.

“I smell it, too, otter,” said Dormas. She had her head tilted back and her muzzle high in the air.

“Smell what?” Jon-Tom asked.

“Something burning, mate.”

“I do not smell it yet,” said Clothahump, “but the air is decidedly warmer, and I fear not from the sudden onset of an early spring, Sorbl, have a look.”

“Yes, Master.” Spreading his great wings, the owl rose from his perch on Dormas’s back and climbed rapidly.

The rest of them stood and waited, watching the only airborne member of their little party as he circled higher and higher above them.

“I can smell it now too,” Jon-Tom murmured. “It’s strong, but there’s something else about it. I can’t say what.”

“Maybe Sorbl can tell us,” Dormas ventured. The wizard’s famulus had folded his wings and was dropping like a stone toward them. At the last possible instant he spread his wings, braked, and landed on the ninny’s back. He did not look worried; he looked terrified.

“We’re trapped,” he informed them in a shaky voice, “doomed. This time there is no way out.”

“Come now,” Clothahump prompted him, unperturbed, “there is always a way out. We have proven that in the past, and we shall prove it as often as necessary in the future. What did you see?”

“F-fire,” the owl stammered.

“Fine. Fire. From which direction is it advancing?”

“From everywhere, Master. From all directions.”

Something wasn’t kosher here, Jon-Tom told himself. Even if they were completely surrounded by a forest fire of as yet unknown dimensions, Sorbl ought not to be concerned for himself. Surely he could soar to safety.

“What was burning?” he asked the famulus. “The woods?”

“The woods, the ground, everything but the air itself,” the owl told him. “The whole world is on fire.”

“You are not making sense, apprentice,” Clothahump snapped at him. “It is not the first time.”

“Truly, Master, everything burns.”

Jon-Tom was standing on tiptoes, turning a slow circle and scanning the various horizons. The air temperature continued to rise. But there was no smoke to be seen in any direction. Even if Sorbl was greatly exaggerating and only a small grove was ablaze, they should still be able to see some smoke.

And why should he exaggerate?

“Somebody’s eyes are deceiving them,” Dormas muttered. “How can the world burn without sending up smoke?”

“A perturbation.” Clothahump was fumbling through the drawers in his plastron, searching for a particular vial. He was sure he’d stored it securely in the compartment closest to his left armpit—maybe down nearer knee level. “I suspect it approaches from the south. The all-encompassing perturbations usually begin quite far from the perambulator itself.”

“So we’re to be incinerated.” Mudge sat down heavily. “A short reprieve, that.”

“I can see it now.” Jon-Tom pointed toward the southwest, and all eyes turned in that direction.

The flames came marching over the line of trees, engulfing everything in their path. The fire was like a moving wall. There were no gaps, no cool spaces where a desperate runner might slip through to freedom. Above the advancing wall the sky was alive with darting, dancing fireballs. They could hear the crackle and roar clearly, the rising susurration of a combustible choir. And still there was not a puff of smoke to be seen.

“Far out,” Jon-Tom whispered. He was starting to sweat.

Now the conflagration was close enough for them to see that the rocks themselves were burning. Each bit of gravel, each smooth-shouldered boulder burst forth with orange-red streamers. Jon-Tom was dimly aware that behind them Clothahump was holding both hands in the air and reciting a rapid-fire sequence of ancient words.

Moving with preternatural speed, the flames swept down on them. The heat was intense but not volcanic. No one’s clothes burst into flames on his body. No one collapsed from sucking in a single hot, suffocating breath. No natural blaze this, Jon-Tom told himself wonderingly. Sorbl was right about that.

Suddenly the onrushing wall of flame split as though cleft with an ax. It swung around them, consuming the land on either side. The air remained breathable. They were completely surrounded by a towering wall of fire.

“Great light show.” Jon-Tom mopped at his face. The perspiration was pouring off him, but it was not intolerable. He tried to pretend he was lying on the beach at Redondo with the Santa Ana bringing in air from off the Mojave. “What do we do now?”

“To think that not long ago I was worried about getting too cold,” Colin commented, displaying a fine sense of koalaish irony. He’d instinctively drawn his sword as the fire had approached, holding it tightly in both hands, the long claws interlocked to intensify his grip. But there was no enemy to stab at here, no flesh to cleave. He slipped the saber neatly into his back scabbard.

Dormas was more uneasy than any of the them, a characteristic of her kind. “We can’t go forward and we can’t go back. Wizard?”

“I have preserved us. That was all I had time to do,” Clothahump told them. “We can do naught but wait for the perturbation to end and pray it is not a lengthy one. I should not like to have to chance changing it by force. Natural fires are difficult enough to spell, and this blaze is anything but natural. The problem is that it is exceedingly difficult to convince a flame to hold still for anything, much less a decombustion spell.”

“What happens when it ends?” Dormas wanted to know.

“Everything snaps back, as with any perturbation—unless the effect is permanent, as was the case with Ospenspri.”

“You mean, trees become trees again, rocks turn back to rock, and anyone caught in the blaze is restored to normal?”

Clothahump nodded. “There is no limit to the tricks a perambulator can play with the laws of nature. Do not attempt to apply logic to its actions; you will go mad. It must be defined and dealt with on its own terms.”

“Maybe you’re not ready to deal with it, sir, but I can’t take much more of this heat.” Jon-Tom was already unslinging his duar. He eyed Colin. “You wanted proof that I was a spellsinger? You’re going to get it.”

“But, my boy, the risk,” Clothahump said earnestly. “One wrong word, one wrong note, and you could cancel out the protective spell I put in place around us. We could be swallowed up by this fiery perturbation of unknown duration, never to become ourselves again until it is too late.”

Jon-Tom nodded toward the sun. “The greater fire or the lesser, what’s the difference? We might as well be swallowed up. We’re not getting any nearer the perambulator by sitting here and sweating. He who hesitates is lost.” He thumbed a few chords, the notes clearly audible above the rumble of the imprisoning flame.

“ ‘E who plays the wrong song is screwed,” Mudge warned him.

“Work your magic if you can, man,” said Colin. “I am not afraid.”

“That’s because you ‘aven’t seen wot shit-for-brains ‘ere can sing up,” Mudge told him as he backed as far away from his tall friend as the fire would permit.

Jon-Tom considered. There were plenty of fire songs in his repertoire. Trouble was, most of them, such as the old ‘Tire—you’re gonna burn” or “Come on baby, light my fire” were pro-conflagration rather than anti. It took him several minutes to recall the lyrics to a suitably dousing ditty. Then he began to sing and to play.

The sound of the duar had an immediate effect on the crackling, twisting ocean of heat surrounding them. Flames big and small shuddered and shrank in time to his beat. But when the song had done and he’d mouthed the final stanza, the fire was still there.

Closer than there, in fact, for part of the blaze appeared to jump toward him. He’d finally gone and done it, then. Not only had he failed to make the perturbation snap back to normal, he’d canceled Clothahump’s protective spell exactly as the wizard had feared. He spread his arms and prepared himself as best as he could to accept the embrace of the flames.

The red-orange tongue of destruction halted a yard in front of him. “Don’t be so melodramatic,” it hissed.

“We only want you to join us,” crackled another, moving in from the right.

Jon-Tom opened one eye, his arms still spread wide, and squinted at Clothahump. “This is part of the perturbation?”

“Most extraordinary.” The wizard was studying the dancing flames. “It would appear that the fire has released the spirits of land and forest, of individual trees and stones. They have taken up residence in the blaze itself. Have a care, lest they induce you to join them. If they are attempting to convince you to do so voluntarily, it must mean that they cannot overcome us by force.”

“Don’t worry.” A relieved Jon-Tom held his ground against the tempting flame and let his arms drop to his sides. “I don’t even like to hold a match.”

“Join us, join us! Come and play and burn. Cast off your solid raiment and feel the pleasure of weightlessness! Run before the wind and devour die world anew! Don’t try to beat the heat—join it!” the blaze chorused.

“No, thanks,” Jon-Tom told them firmly. “I never was big on conspicuous consumption.”

“Well, then, sing us another song. Another melody of searing affection, of rampant incineration and fickle combustibility.”

“And if I’m so inclined?” He held his breath. So did his companions.

“Why, then, if you please us, we’ll pass on by and not trouble you any more. Sing to us again and we will not disturb your rest, much less consume you.”

Jon-Tom thought of challenging them to do their worst, since it was Clothahump’s opinion that the fire couldn’t touch him without his willing acquiescence, but it seemed prudent not to force a confrontation with a forest fire of major and unnatural proportions. Easier to sing all the songs he’d thought of at first. If there was such a thing as an intelligent blaze, better to be on its good side, he told himself.

So he sang, smoothly and skillfully but without putting any more energy into it than was necessary in case they were trying to pull a fast one on him. He’d sung better but never hotter, leading off with Kiss’s “Heaven’s on Fire” and concluding with half the songs from Def Lepard’s Pyromaniac album. The flames appeared to appreciate his efforts, jumping and prancing, throwing off bits and pieces of themselves into the sky.

By now the heat had become truly oppressive. He would have disrobed, save that he didn’t dare take his hands off the duar or his eyes off the intelligent flames dancing before him. At the moment they were enjoying themselves, but he didn’t doubt that their attitude could change quickly. And he was running out of stamina as well as songs.

“I’m getting tired,” he told them. “Couldn’t we take a break for a little while?”

“Oh, no, play on, burn on, dance on!” A thin tongue of flame reached out from the fiery wall and came within inches of caressing his right palm. It scorched the small hairs on the back of his hand. He jumped back a step and kept playing. Clearly Clothahump’s spell was weakening. Their continued survival might depend on his continued singing.

He was beginning to despair and his throat was getting sore when the flames vanished. Instantly and without warning they were gone, down to the last smouldering ember. Trees were trees again, and the rocks no longer burned. Once more they found themselves standing amid the cool confines of the coniferous north woods.

“Sorbl, get up there and let us know if you can see any flames, anywhere at all.”

Obediently the owl took wing. He did not stay up very long.

“Nothing, Master. The world is as it was before the fire. We have snapped back. Nothing burns, except—” He pointed in alarm to his left.

The duar was glowing. Jon-Tom did a hysterical little dance as he fought to disengage himself from the instrument and toss it to the ground. It lay there glowing white-hot but did not burst into flame. Everyone waited and watched until it had cooled off enough for its owner to pick it up again. The strings were still warm.

Jon-Tom inspected it thoroughly. “Looks okay.”

“That’s a sight,” Mudge commented. “I know you can overheat an engine, an’ a draft animal, an’ a party or a lady, but I never saw anyone overheat an instrument before.”

“Too much singing about fire and burning and flames.” He caressed the precious instrument lovingly, then turned to face Clothahump. “Sir, you spoke of perturbations that might be aimed at us specifically. Do you think this was one of those?”

The wizard considered. “Difficult to say. I could not sense any unusual malignity, but that is proof of nothing except how much age has affected my sensitivity. One thing is certain, though. Regardless of whether or not this was intended to stop us or was one more in the series of general perturbations, it was more serious than most. As the perambulator’s frustration and agitation grows, its perturbations are likely to become more and more dangerous.

“From now on we must mount a night watch, lest some life-threatening perturbation catch us unawares in our sleep.”

“I’ll take the first watch tonight,” Colin volunteered. “I like the night.”

“I’ll ‘ave the second,” said Mudge hurriedly. “I’d rather stand early than late.”

Jon-Tom sighed. “I guess I’m stuck with the graveyard shift. Dormas, I’ll wake you when my shift’s done.” She nodded agreeably.

It wasn’t often that Sorbl had a chance to show off. This was one time when he did. “And I, naturally, shall stand watch last and longest. Being a Buboninae, I can tolerate the night better than any of you.”

“Provided Dormas keeps a sharp eye on the liquor supply,” Mudge murmured to Jon-Tom. “Wot about you, Your Brilliantship?”

Clothahump’s manner was ever so condescending. “I am the most powerful wizard in the world, not to mention the brains of mis little troop. I do not stand guard over myself.”

“That’s about wot I thought.”

“Watch your tongue, water rat. If you would like to bid to take the leadership of our group, I will—”

“No, no, not me, Your Conjurerness.” The otter was grinning. “Far be it from me to dispute the fairness o’ your awesome decisions.”

“When you’re going on three hundred years old”—the wizard harrumphed—”you find you require the maximum amount of sleep.”

The next morning dawned clear and cold. Colin yawned, stretched, and spoke to his companions, who were still wrapped in their blankets and bedrolls.

“I’ll see to the fire.”

“You couldn’t make a fire if somebody doused you in oil and stuck a torch between your teeth!”

“What?” The koala rose quickly, turned a fast circle. The only other member of the party who was on his feet was Mudge. The otter was standing on the far side of the central campfire, surveying the forest.

Colin glowered at him. “I’ll let that one pass. It’s too early for this.”

“Wot?” Mudge turned and eyed him curiously.

“Nothing.” Colin bent over the pile of dead wood that remained from their scavenging of the previous night, began to stack several fragments in the center of the pile of gray ash.

Mudge shrugged. “Wot would you like to ‘ave with your meal? Berries, perbits, nuts?”

“Doesn’t matter” came the quick reply. “We have the biggest nut of all in camp already. Or maybe it’s a fruit.”

The otter whirled. “Now see ‘ere, guv’nor, there’s such a thing as stretchin’ ‘ospitality too far.”

At first Colin didn’t appear to hear him. Then he looked up to see Mudge staring at him, and his gaze narrowed dangerously. He paused in the middle of lighting the fire. “Are you talking to me, pilgrim?”

“Yeah, I’m talking to you, cookie-ears. Just what did you mean by that?”

“What did I mean by what?” Colin was as confused as he was upset.

Dormas lifted her head from beneath her blanket, sleepily peered out at the world. “If you two kids are going to argue, I’d appreciate it if you’d do it somewhere else. I’m still working on my beauty sleep.”

“And everyone knows how badly you need it, too, nag-hag.”

The hinny was instantly awake. She rolled over onto her knees and glared around the campsite. “Who said that? Where’s the bastard who said that?”

Mudge and Colin were too busy trying to stare each other down to pay any attention to her. “If you don’t find our company to your likin’ anymore, mate,” the otter growled, “we’ll be ‘appy to do without you.”

“Actually I could do without your face. Also your neck, paws, and the rest of your degenerate body. In fact, the world could do without you altogether.”

“Is that a fact?” The otter reached for his sword.

“Wait a minute.” Colin’s anger had given way to genuine puzzlement.

“That’s all it’ll take to teach you some manners, you—” But Colin cut him off.

“No, think a minute, pilgrim. I didn’t say anything a moment ago.”

“The pudgy one is correct.” Both of them turned to see Clothahump standing and scanning the air around them. “Restrain your natural impulses, you two. There is mischief afoot this morning. Up, everyone, wake up!”

“Huh, wha—” Jon-Tom rolled out from beneath his blanket. “What’s going on?”

“Get up, Jon-Tom.”

Their confrontation already forgotten, Mudge and Colin were staring down at the spellsinger. “Is he always like this?” Colin inquired.

Mudge sighed. “I’m afraid so. ‘E’s good to ‘ave around, as he showed durin’ yesterday’s ‘ot spell, even if ‘e is a bit of a prude an’ lazy to boot. But ‘e’s a spellsinger o’ the first water when ‘e’s on, which ain’t always.”

“I heard that, Mudge.” Jon-Tom sat up and fought with his shirt. “Where do you get off calling anybody else lazy?”

“Silence, all of you,” ordered Clothahump in a commanding voice. He turned away from them and strolled softly over to the small tree where a wary Sorbl still stood watch. “What have you seen approach the camp?”

“Nothing, Master. Nothing has come and gone, not so much as a lizard. But—I sense something. I did not think it worth waking anyone. It has been present only since sunrise.”

Clothahump nodded approvingly. “Good. You are learning suspicion. All those lessons may not have been in vain. I sense it also.”

Jon-Tom climbed to his feet, trying to clear his mind and his eyes, which were both still foggy with sleep. “Sense what? I don’t see anything.”

The wizard started back toward his sleeping basin, was brought up short by a challenging, sneering voice. “Where do you think you’re going, you senile old fart? You think you’re tough because of that shell. Well, it is hard, except for your head, which is soft like a ripe tomato.”

“Who said that?” Jon-Tom looked at Mudge. Mudge looked cautiously at Colin, who returned the stare.

“You didn’t insult my fire-making, did you?”

“Of course not, mate. I did nothin’ o’ the sort. An’ you didn’t snap at me when I were about to set out on the mornin’s foragin’?”

“No. Why would I do that?”

Clothahump had proceeded on to the far side of the camp when the voice sounded again. “Can’t even walk in a straight line anymore, can you? Advanced decrepitude’s definitely set it. Wonder which’ll go first? The brain or the body?”

The wizard took a couple of steps backward and the voice ceased. “It is a wall,” he announced confidently. The others gaped at him.

“A wall?” Jon-Tom muttered. He looked in front of the wizard, saw nothing but clear air. “But everything’s normal, everything and everybody are normal. The world’s unaltered.”

“It is definitely a designed perturbation,” Clothahump went on, “sent here to stop us. Truly the individual we seek is one of power and talent, though his thoughts are distorted and his methods unorthodox. We are in a cage.”

“I don’t see any bars, Master.” Sorbl spread his wings and lifted off. He was ten feet off the ground when that by-now familiar voice boomed at him.

“Looks like a pie plate with wings.”

“No,” declared a second voice, at least as nasty as the first, “it’s a flying feather duster.”

Sorbl was brought up as short, as if he’d smacked into a glass ceiling. He barely had time to right himself as he tumbled groundward, landing hard on his left side. Pushing himself upright with a wing, he hopped onto his feet and studied the seemingly empty air overhead.

“I am sorry I doubted you, Master. It was just like hitting a roof.”

“I still don’t see any bars or anything,” a thoroughly confused Jon-Tom muttered.

“This is not your ordinary sort of cage, my boy. I have seen cages fashioned of wood and cages made of steel. I have heard of cages built of clay and delicate cages woven of silk. I have even heard of cages built with the bodies of living creatures. But I have never heard of, read of, or expected to encounter a cage fashioned of gratuitous insults.”

“Who said they’re gratuitous?” chorused a cluster of voices around them. “Every one of ‘em’s well deserved.”

“It will not work,” Clothahump argued with the air. “You will never be able to hold us here, nor get us to fighting among ourselves. We are too intelligent and too diverse a group. Your best efforts have already failed.” Mudge and Colin exchanged an embarrassed glance.

“Sinister, malign, and loquacious you may be,” the wizard went on, “but you are also directed by an unbalanced personality and therefore can have no effect on those of us who are healthy.”

“He calls us unbalanced,” declared a voice. “Him, who’s been senile for the past fifty years.” This was followed by a roll of sardonic laughter. It faded away with frightening finality, like the door of a safe being slammed shut.

“This is ridiculous,” Jon-Tom said. “There’s nothing holding us here. All we have to do is walk away.” He wasn’t ready to grant that anything had actually stopped Sorbl. He started off to his left, striding deliberately toward the nearest trees.

“Think you’re pretty smart, don’t you, kid? You know nothing and understand everything. The turtle knows everything and understands nothing.”

Jon-Tom bounced off nothing, as though he’d walked into a brick fireplace. Nothing was a good, solid, unyielding word. He reached out with both hands, found that the air in front of him had the consistency of transparent vinyl.

“Well, I’ll be damned.”

“I certainly hope so,” said the voice, forcing him back a couple of steps.

“Words can be stronger barriers than metal,” Clothahump told them all. “It has always been so, if not always recognized as such. This is one perturbation we cannot outwait. We must find a way to break through it. Insults can be as suffocating as any fire, for all that they smother the spirit instead of the body.”

Jon-Tom grabbed up his cape and duar. “This is crazy, and we’re getting out of here right now. Mudge and I have fought our way past djinn, monsters, swamps, evil magicians, and well-meaning muck, and I’m not going to let a few words stop me.” He swung the duar around and began to sing.

But as soon as the music began, so did the voices. “A spellsinger, huh? You’ve got a lot to learn about music.”

“Yeah. For openers, remarks aren’t lyrics.” Jon-Tom was knocked backward a step.

“He sings for the ages.”

“Sure does,” agreed another voice. “The ages between five and nine.” Jon-Tom felt his fingers trembling. He began to miss notes.

“Obviously descended from a long line,” said the first voice.

“Yep. A long line that his mother listened to.”

Jon-Tom was forced to his knees, and the words caught in his throat.

“Actually,” declared the first voice, “he hasn’t any enemy in the world. And his friends don’t like him, either.”

At that point Jon-Tom gave up trying to play or sing. He swallowed hard, the insults catching in his throat, and rolled over onto his knees as he fought to catch his breath. It had been a long time since he’d faced magic as powerful and relentless as this, and never had he been confronted by anything quite as insidious. The strength of the perambulator, he knew. How could he counter it with simple songs, mere spellsinging? What could you sing to counter an insult?

Rock music was designed to make you feel good, to raise your spirits, not to knock down. But there was one kind of rock that was a reaction to that, just as it was a reaction against any kind of authority, against anything worthwhile. Knees shaky, fingers uncertain on the strings, he struggled to his feet. Yes, those were the only kind of lyrics that might have some eifect on the cage of insults. He considered whom to begin with: Oxo, Sex Pistols, The Dead Kennedys, Black Flag, or some of the new groups. He began to feel some of his control returning along with his confidence.

You didn’t need the haircut to sing punk.

Mudge put his paws to his ears, and Clothahump’s expression reflected his thorough disgust with the lyrics Jon-Tom was singing. Excellent! It was proof that he was doing exactly what he intended to do. Like any good punk singer, he was doing his utmost to insult his audience.

“What do you think?” wondered the first voice. Jon-Tom tried not to rush his music. It seemed that the cage was tightening around them, restricting their range of movement even further. He staggered but didn’t fall.

“Careful,” said the other voice, “he might be dangerous after all.”

“Not a chance. He’s a sheep in sheep’s clothing.”

“He sings,” rumbled the first voice, firing a serious salvo, “as if it were a painful duty.”

Jon-Tom was forced backward. Delivered with precision and perfect timing, each insult struck him like a physical blow, as any good insult should. He felt like a boxer trying to go the full fifteen rounds, and his hands were tied to the duar. But he kept singing nonetheless. It was all he knew to do.

And still he was forced back. It wasn’t that his punk anthems didn’t possess an equal amount of vitriol, he thought, but the fact that they were blatant and straightforward that made them less effective. There was nothing subtle about them. He was a barbarian with a battle-ax, trying to fend off the attacks of half a dozen lightning-fast fencers. If he could just get in one solid blow with his music, one unparried stab, he felt certain it would shatter the verbal cage contracting around them.

But the insults continued to flow unabated, drawing their strength and power from some unseen well of acid, out-maneuvering him at every turn. A little jab here, a crude comment on his bodily functions there, a deprecatory nod in the direction of his ancestry slipping in to stick him from behind before his cruder counterjabs could have any effect.

“He is dull,” claimed the first voice, “naturally dull, but it must have taken a great deal of work on his part for him to have become what we see now. Such excess is not in nature.” Jon-Tom went to his knees.

“He’s not all that bad,” countered the second voice. “After all, he is capable of running the full gamut of musical emotion from A to B.”

Now Jon-Tom was squirming helplessly on his back, still trying to play the duar, still trying to sing. He was finding it difficult to breathe.

Anxious faces peering down at him now; his friends, their concern reflected in their expressions.

“Take ‘er easy now, mate.” Mudge glanced up at Clothahump. “You ‘ave to do somethin’, Your Wizardship. ‘E’s in a bad way.”

“I have never encountered a distortion of reality of this nature before. It is difficult to know what to do or where to begin.”

“Well, / know where to begin!” yelled Mudge, and he pulled the duar from Jon-Tom’s weakened hands.

“Wait—no.” Jon-Tom tried to sit up, failed. “You can’t, Mudge! You don’t know how to spellsing.”

“Spellsingin* ain’t wot’s wanted ‘ere,” snapped the otter, “and neither is your bleedin’ useless magic, Your Sorceremess.” Mudge looked off-balance since the duar was nearly as tall as he was. Somehow he got it settled in front of him. He ran his fingers over the double set of strings, and notes, angry and atonal, floated out into the air.

“That’s not music,” said Dormas.

“Oh, yes, it is. Tis exactly the sort of music this monstrosity that’s surroundin’ us and tryin’ to choke us off will appreciate.”

“So he thinks he can sing,” said the first voice as the contracting cage turned its attention away from Jon-Tom.

“Yes,” said the second. “He doesn’t realize that all he is doing is sitting in a sewer and getting ready to contribute to it.”

“Is that a fact?” yelled the otter. “Well, ‘ave a care an’ listen to this, you invisible, impolite, perturbed arse’ole!”

The otter began to sing. The accompaniment the duar provided was nothing less than awful, but what mattered was not the ragged series of notes but rather the lyrics Mudge invented. For while Jon-Tom might be the spellsinger and Clothahump the wizard, when it came to concocting insults, Mudge had no equal in this world or in any other.

A kind of wave went through the atmosphere of the camp. A shudder, as though they had just passed through a cloud.

The oppression lifted from Jon-Tom, enabling him to sit up straight. The pain inside his skull began to fade.

The voices fought back furiously, though for the first time, Jon-Tom thought they sounded just the slightest bit hesitant.

“A foul mouth and getting fouler.”

“The air around him is as he does.”

“Is that the best you can do?” Mudge howled on, enjoying himself, letting his anger spill out of him. “An” you call yourselves insults? You wouldn’t know shit if you were standin’ in it!”

Jon-Tom found he could stand. He was wincing repeatedly, not from the insulting blows that had been rained on him previously but from the screeching, wailing sounds the abused duar was producing. Mudge might have fooled with a lyre or some other stringed instrument before, but the complexity of the duar was clearly beyond him. And yet the noise he was making, though bearing the same resemblance to music that a diamond does to a cowflop, seemed to be aiding instead of hindering his offensive efforts.

“Your master should ‘ave great fortune,” the otter sang. “ ‘E should become rich an’ famous an’ attractive, with all the world bowin’ before ‘im. An’ ‘e should learn at the same time that ‘e ‘as some ‘orrible uncurable disease.”

A blast of diseased wind rocked the camp, sending ashes flying from the fire. It was a last feeble attempt to whip them into submission, and it failed. Mudge was already beyond the original barrier, striding toward the trees as though stalking an unseen enemy. Which was exactly what he was doing.

“Go ahead, go ahead,” squeaked the voice, desperately attempting to regain the offensive, “tell us everything you know. It won’t take long.”

Mudge sang back at it. “I’ll tell you everythin’ we both know—it won’t take any longer!”

“If I had to listen to singing like yours much longer,” moaned the remaining voice, “I’d poison you.”

“If I ‘ad to listen to you much longer,” Mudge barked gleefully, “I’d take it!”

When the otter stopped strumming the duar, there was silence, save for the wind blowing through the trees. Nothing more, not a veiled comment, not a sound. The heavy, oppressive feeling that had crowded them into a smaller and smaller place was gone.

“Done already, you cowardly lot? You can dish it out, wot, but you can’t take it. I’m just gettin’ warmed up, I am.” He plucked at the duar. “You think you’ve ‘card insults? You ‘aven’t ‘card any insults. I’ve got an insult for every day I’ve been alive and a few brought forward from prenatal eaves-droppin’.”

“Mudge, it’s over, you did it. You broke the cage and drove it off.”

“Oh, right you are, lad.” He handed over the duar. “I wanted to make sure. I did well, didn’t I?”

Jon-Tom smiled down at his friend. “Mudge, it was positively inspiring.”

“Aye.” The otter drew himself up proudly. “Aye, it were, weren’t it? A day to remember.”

“And a lot of words to forget,” said Clothahump. “It is wholly characteristic of this expedition that we should require rescue by a thersitical water rat. It is one more example of the unpredictability of the enemy we seek. We must be on guard for everything, including that which we cannot imagine. Had I more time, I would have managed to defeat this most recent adversary by more conventional and congenial means.”

“Sure you would, Your Lordship,” said Mudge. Jon-Tom hastened to step between them.

“I’ve listened to enough insults for one morning. Let’s get our gear together and be on our way.”

As they were packing to depart Jon-Tom strolled over to confront Mudge curiously. “Tell me something, Mudge. If what you’d sung, and I use the word hesitantly, hadn’t done the trick, what else did you have in your repertoire? What’s the worst insult you could have thrown against the cage?”

“Why, that’s easy, mate.”

Jon-Tom bent low. The otter cupped a paw to his lips and whispered in the man’s ear. Jon-Tom listened intently, nodding from time to time, his expression twisting. Eventually the otter concluded his recitation and returned to his packing. As he did so there was a sudden rumble underfoot. Mudge jumped one way; Jon-Tom backpedaled and stumbled.

Fortunately the crevass, after splitting the earth between them for about a yard, ceased expanding. Man and otter crawled to the edge of the chasm and peered down into black depths that seemed to extend for miles. They could feel the heat rising from below, and the thick aroma of sulfur filled the air.

Mudge lifted his eyes to meet Jon-Tom’s stare. “Crikey, mate, I ‘ad no idea it were that insultin’.” Rising, he retreated a couple of steps and, while Jon-Tom held his breath, sprinted forward and leapt across the bottomless gap. Mudge turned to look back at the rift he’d opened in the earth’s crust.

“I don’t understand, mate. I’ve mounted me share o’ insults before and not one of ‘em ever ‘ad a result like this.”

“The lingering power of the duar’s music,” Clothahump explained. “It will fade. You did well, though if any unusual ability might have been expected of you, the one you demonstrated was appropriate and unsurprising.”

“Can’t even give me a compliment when ‘tis due, the old fart,” Mudge grumbled. “I save ‘is arse, save everyone’s, and that’s me reward. Well, ‘e’ll see. The next time trouble comes, you won’t find old Mudge leapin’ to the rescue. No, sir. Not by the thickness of a cat’s whisker you won’t.

“That’s just Clothahump’s way, Mudge.” Jon-Tom tried to calm his friend. “You ought to know that by now.”

“That’s true, lad. That’s ‘is way—selfish, contemptuous, an’ overbearin’. Me, I’m glad I’m no wizard if that’s the personality that goes with it.”

“Just don’t utter any absolutes. We’re not out of this yet, you know.”

“Is that supposed to be a revelation, mate? I’m never out of it so long as I’m forced to ‘ang around you and ‘Is Snotness. Well”—he took a deep breath—”we ‘andled ‘is forest fire and we ‘andled ‘is farkin’ insults. If that’s the worst this ‘ere madman can throw against us, we should ‘ave a simple enough time of it settin’ the perambulator free.”

“I hope you’re right, Mudge.” Jon-Tom turned his gaze toward the northern mountains. “But we still have to worry about the perambulator itself. Somehow I have the feeling that everything we’ve experienced so far is just a foretaste of what it can do.”

Sorbl had spotted a pass cutting through the first line of peaks, and they were climbing toward it. After weeks of marching through endless forest it was cheering to have a visible goal in sight. Having walked for more than a year, it was difficult to keep the excited Colin from sprinting out ahead of them.

“Slowly and carefully go,” Clothahump warned him. “The nearer we get, the greater the danger. He knows now that we are coming for him. The cage of deadly insults he tried to trap us with is proof enough of that.”

“I’m not afraid, Wise One. I don’t care what form he takes or what obstacles he tries to put in our path. I’ve come long and far, and I can taste the moment when I put my sword through the throat of this crazed troublemaker. He’s brought so much unpleasantness and discomfort upon the world.”

“We are not yet certain our adversary is a ‘he,’“ Clothahump reminded the koala, “nor even if it inhabits a familiar form. There may be no throat to stick.”

“You can bet I’ll find an appropriate place to stick it, sorcerer.” As he spoke, the turtle next to him was beginning to change. “Beware, friends! It’s happening again!”

“The world looks the same,” Sorbl argued.

“No, I can feel it coming too.” Clothahump spread his arms wide. “Be at ease. No one panic. We have survived and overcome every perturbation to date, and we shall survive this one as well.”

Had he known what was coming, it’s doubtful the wizard would have voiced such confidence, for this was a perturbation so severe and unsettling, it seemed certain to drive them all mad before the world snapped back to reality again. All were affected. All save one.

Jon-Tom was not changed at all. Throughout the entire transformation he suffered nothing more than a momentary nausea. And while he could understand his companions’ distress from a philosophical standpoint, it was hard for him to empathize with their metamorphosis.

“Oh, God,” Dormas moaned, “this is too much! I—I don’t think I can handle it.”

“Easy, steady there.” It was clear Clothahump himself, despite his brave and defiant words of a moment ago, was more than a little shaken by the change that overcame them. “I know it’s bad, but we’ve come through worse.”

“No, we haven’t,” cried Sorbl. “Master, this is terrible! I can’t fly. I’ve lost my wings completely and I have these things instead.”

Indeed there was something particularly heart-wrenching about an earthbound owl, though Sorbl was no more or less severely altered than any of the others.

“As ‘eaven is me witness,” Mudge was muttering disconsolately, “if I gets back me old self again, I’ll never complain at wot fate ‘as in store for me. I’m one with Dormas on this, Your Sorcerership. I don’t know ‘ow long I can stand it.”

“We have no choice,” Clothahump told them grimly. “We have to stand it—somehow.” He stood there gritting his teeth, in itself a remarkable circumstance since turtles do not have teeth. But Clothahump had them now. So did Sorbl.

“Come on now.” Jon-Tom tried his best to cheer them. “It’s not all that bad. If you’ll just try relaxing, you might find yourselves getting used to it.”

“I’m gonna die for sure,” Dormas moaned. Her toughness and resilience had deserted her in the face of this newest nightmare.

“Get used to this?” said Colin. “I’d sooner pluck out my eyes so I wouldn’t have to look at myself.”

“Yes, it’s easy for you to stand there calmly and mouth platitudes,” said a whimpering Sorbl. “You aren’t suffering as we are suffering.”

That much was true, Jon-Tom had to admit. Demonstrating an extraordinary and unprecedented selectivity, the perturbation had left him untouched, whereas his friends had been radically altered. Clothahump could now grit his teeth because for the first time in his life he had some. Sorbl was having to adjust to a body without wings. As for poor Dormas, she had to feel as if her whole skeleton had been wrenched sideways. It was a change they had been threatened with as children, and now they were experiencing it for real. Their worst nightmares had come true.

Each and every one of them had been turned into (it was almost too awful to say aloud) a human being.

There was Clothahump, holding his ground while furiously trying to recall some spell, any spell, that might restore them to their real selves. He had been transformed into a short old man with a long white beard, long hair, and a slightly smaller set of six-sided spectacles. He wore canvas pants and a tan safari jacket full of pockets. Only the eyes were the same, staring out from beneath a brow of hair instead of shell.

Next to him a strapping lady of fifty-five swayed awkwardly on her feet. She was six feet tall. Dormas hadn’t been broken by her pack load because it, too, had been changed, shrunk down to a single backpack, which hung from shoulder straps. Her hair was short and black, and her handsome, if terrified, face was lined and deeply tanned.

Then there was a short, slim teenager whose eyes darted wildly in all directions. Once he turned and ran toward a nearby tree while flapping his arms, until he realized anew that he was incapable of flight. The look in his yellow eyes was piteous to behold. Colin tried to comfort the distraught Sorbl. The koala’s attire was little changed from what he’d been wearing before the perturbation had struck. Black leather and metal studs, though altered to fit the body of a fullback. He stood five-nine and must have weighed a good two hundred and twenty pounds, Jon-Tom guessed, and all of it muscle. A perfect human analog of the little koala. He also had the face of a movie villain and eyes that glittered. It would have been an entirely intimidating personage if not for the retention, albeit furless, of grossly oversize ears.

And then there was Mudge. A man in his mid-thirties, thin and wiry. He wore his green cap and carried sword and longbow, both lengthened to fit his human form. Very impressive in his transformation, except for the fear in his face and the disgust in his voice.

“This is bloody awful, just bloody awful.” He held out both arms and had to fight to keep from shaking uncontrollably. “Look at this sickening, naked flesh. Not a ‘int o’ fur anywheres.” He twisted around to look behind him. “An’ no proper tail, either. Nothin’. A void where an expression ought to be.” He gazed pleadingly at Clothahump. “Tell us this ain’t goin’ to last much longer, sir.”

“You are no more anxious for a return to normalcy than I, water rat. If you feel naked and unprotected, consider for a moment the emotions I am experiencing.”

“It’s indecent,” Colin insisted. “Damn indecent. Enough to make a strong koala cry.”

“We’ve got to do something,” Dormas insisted. Her voice was clear, the phrasing elegant and little changed from her normal tone. “If I have to stay like this much longer, I’ll go crackers. I keep wanting to sit down on all fours as is right and proper, and this body doesn’t work like that. Look at these useless little things.” She displayed first her right arm, then the left. “Put the slightest upper body pressure on them and they’ll break, I know they will. The rest of you can go on about losing a little fur, but what about me? I can’t even walk properly.”

“What about me, what about these?” The teenager shook his arms at her. “Bats are naked, too, but at least they can fly. I’m grounded.” He started to sob.

“Take it easy,” Jon-Tom urged them. “We’ll be changing back soon.”

“Aye, an’ wot if we don’t?” Jon-Tom had to admit it was unsettling to find himself standing eye to eye with a swarthy older man and hear Mudge’s familiar voice issuing from his throat. It was nothing but a man standing before him. There wasn’t a hint of whisker or fur about the man’s face, and yet he knew it was Mudge. In addition to that unmistakable voice, there were the eyes, blue and challenging. It was fascinating to watch him move. There were all of Mudge’s little gestures and affectations, being played back at three-quarter speed.

“We can’t stay like this much longer, mate. An intelligent mind can take only so much.”

“I am trying,” Clothahump said earnestly. “I have been trying for the past several minutes, but it is difficult to design the parameters of a spell with all of you moaning and blabbering at once.”

“It doesn’t bother me.” Jon-Tom plucked idly, thoughtfully, at his duar.

Mudge hastened to put a restraining hand on his friend’s wrist. “Be careful, lad. Don’t screw this one up. Make this perturbation’s effects permanent and you’ll ‘ave at least one death on your ‘ands, because I’ll surely kill meself if I’m forced to occupy this obscene guise forever.”

“Don’t worry, Mudge. Hey, I’m hot. Remember how I handled the fire?”

“Aye, and almost got yourself cooked in the bargain. Mess this spellsong up and I’ll barbecue you meself.” He removed his hand. “Bugger me though if I ain’t curious to see wot sort o’ song you can come up with to counter a catastrophe like this.”

“Go ahead, my boy,” Clothahump urged him. “You might as well make the attempt. I am as uncomfortable with the present circumstances as anyone else. With my thoughts as unsettled as they are, it is difficult to think clearly.”

“I’ll take care with the lyrics,” he assured the wizard. So he would—if he could think of some. Mudge had a point. Their present situation was not one your average performer would think about when sitting down to compose a song.

Something he’d picked up while poking around the Department of Ethnic Music might work, but he’d taken that course years ago and didn’t exactly practice African chants or Indonesian gamelan tunes daily. That wasn’t the kind of music likely to put him on Billboard’s Top 100. His rock repertoire was considerably more extensive and up-to-date, but for the life of him he couldn’t recall anything that related even vaguely to changing humans into animals. Not that the lyrics had to be that precise. As he’d learned, it was the feel of the song, the driving emotion behind it that mattered most of all when one was spellsinging.

There was one song that might accomplish what the perambulator had already done. Suppose he sung the lyrics backward? Crazy—but no crazier than their present predicament. He knew the song well enough, cleared his throat, and began to play.

It didn’t sound right, but neither was his friends’ situation. Perhaps that was appropriate. Certainly something was, for as he passed the halfway point, there was a shudder in the air, that familiar queasiness in his belly, and a sudden haziness before his eyes, like waking up slowly on a Sunday morning. He kept singing, wanting to finish the song, and when he concluded with the opening stanza and emerged from that wonderful performer’s trance, he saw with relief that it had worked exactly as he’d hoped. The perturbation had been reversed and everything had snapped back to normal. His friends were his friends once more.

“Me! I’m me again!” Mudge yelped as he jumped two feet into the air. He ran his fingers through his thick brown fur. “I’ll never knock bein’ meself ever again.” He was prancing around like the kid who’d just discovered he’d won the special dessert at the school picnic.

Dormas had been restored to her powerful, four-legged form. “Disgusting experience. What did you sing, young one?”

“Rick Springfield song—’We All Need the Human Touch’ —only I sang it backward. Worked as well as I could’ve hoped.” He beamed at his restored companions.

Clothahump had his shell back. Sorbl was already in the air, driving through dives and barrel rolls. Colin flexed his short, muscular arms, wiggled his oversize ears, and rubbed his damp black nose.

“Much better, Spellsinger.” He frowned at Jon-Tom. “Uh-oh. My friends, we’ve got ourselves another problem. I guess we ought to have expected it.”

“Damn,” said Mudge, staring in the same direction as the koala, “do you think we’ll ever be free o’ this thing’s insidious effects, Your Wizardness?”

Clothahump, too, was gazing with interest at the center of attention. “Not until we find it and free it from its prison.”

Jon-Tom tried to turn and look in the same direction as his friends, until it occurred to him that they were not staring past him but at him. At the same time he became aware that something was still not quite right. He swallowed. His spellsong had done everything he’d asked of it—and more.

Mudge studied him critically, lips pursed, hands on furry hips. “Well, Your Lordship, wot are we goin’ to do about this?”

Standing there before them and looking very forlorn indeed was a tall, very slim howler monkey. It wore Jon-Tom’s indigo shirt and lizardskin cape and boots, and it held tightly to the duar. Looking down at himself, Jon-Tom took note of his long arms and curving, prehensile tail. He flexed his mouth, feeling the thick curving lips and the sharp canines inside.

“That were some spellsong, mate,” the otter told him sympathetically.

“Personally I think he looks better this way,” said Colin. He stepped forward and drew his sword.

Jon-Tom retreated a step. “Hey, I can’t look that bad, can I?”

“You deserve to see yourself as your friends see you.” The koala held the highly polished blade upright.

Jon-Tom gazed into the narrow mirror thus presented for his use. His jaw dropped when he got a glimpse of himself. It dropped quite a ways, in fact, much farther than any human jaw could have fallen.

“Oh, my God. What have I done?”

“Right by us,” Mudge said, “but maybe not so good by yourself.”

Jon-Tom continued to stare at the reflection in the (flat of Colin’s sword. He’d gone and done it for sure this time) Until now the only one who’d ever been able to make a monkey out of him had been an attractive senior in his morning class on torts. She’d stood him up twice on successive weekends. Now he’d managed to better her efforts, physically as well as mentally.

“I’ve got to try to sing myself back.”

“Wait a minim, mate. You can’t use that same song again or you’re liable to put the rest of us right back to where we were before.”

“But that’s the only appropriate song I know.”

“Then you will have to try something else, my boy,” Clothahump told him. “My powers are useless in this matter. I cannot help you. Only you can help you. But you must figure out a way to help yourself without harming us. That is only right.”

“I know, but I’ve used so many songs. I’m tired, and I’m sick of these damn changes. I don’t know what else to sing.”

“You’ll find somethin’, mate.” Mudge tried to encourage his friend. “You always do. Just try singin’, maybe, and you’ll likely ‘it on the right tune.”

“I don’t know. It seems awfully haphazard.”

But he didn’t know what else to do. He didn’t want to change his friends back into their unbearable human shapes any more than he wanted to remain a skinny simian with his knuckles dragging on the ground. There seemed no way out. Maybe Mudge was right. Maybe he should just sing whatever came to mind, whatever pleased him the most. He never felt more whole, more complete, than when he was singing. Maybe that was all it would take.

It was so damned unfair, though. Really, he was nothing but an ordinary and not too bright law student and would-be rock musician misplaced in time and space, and here these people kept expecting him to perform miracles. Which he’d done, time and time again, to help out this one or the other.

Now, when he was the one in need of assistance, what did they suggest? That he help himself. They couldn’t do a damn thing for him. All right, then, he could damn well help himself, and to blazes with this whole unsettled, unnatural world!

He swung the duar around across his chest, clutching it to him with those impossibly long arms. His attenuated fingers easily spanned both sets of strings as he began to sing. So involved was he in his own pique, so mesmerized by his honest fury that he forgot just what he’d turned into.

There is nothing in the animal kingdom that has the proportionate lung power of a howler monkey. It has a voice that carries for miles, over mountains and across dense forest. Backed by the duar and combined with the anger Jon-Tom was feeling, the resultant explosion of sound was magnified and sharpened by the magic of his spellsinging.

So what emerged from his throat was not a passionate plea for restoration so much as it was a primal concussion, a sound so raw and powerful that Mudge and Clothahump, who happened to be standing in the line of lyrical fire, were blown off their feet. The wizard retreated into his shell. Dormas was knocked to her knees. Sorbl instinctively took to the air, only to find himself fighting for balance in the grasp of the small hurricane Jon-Tom was producing. It blew him up over the trees and out of sight down the far side of the hill.

None of this made any impression on Jon-Tom. As far as he was concerned, he was singing normally, generating the same volume as usual, because that was how his howler voice sounded to his howler ears. And as always, when concentrating on his spellsinging with particular intensity, he sang with his eyes closed. Mudge tried to let him know what was going on by shouting at him, but the otter couldn’t make himself heard over the storm.

Dormas turned her back on the raging music while Colin and Mudge dug their claws into the ground and hung on for dear life. Sorbl sensibly stayed out of sight behind the hill while Clothahump remained bottle-up like a barrel. At least two landslides roared down the slope ahead of them, and one especially heartfelt refrain flattened a stand of trees for four hundred yards in a straight line in front of Jon-Tom’s lips.

Finally there was nothing more to sing, no more musical pleading to do. Jon-Tom’s throat was sore from the effort he’d put into his performance. Wiping dirt and leaves from their faces and clothes, Colin and Mudge slowly got to their feet. Sorbl peeped hesitantly through the trees while Clothahump stuck his head out of his shell.

Jon-Tom was himself again, and so were they. He looked a bit bewildered as he peered past his friends. “When did the wind come up?”

“When you opened your mouth, lad.” Mudge clapped him on the shoulder, having to stand on tiptoes to do so. “The particular kind o’ ape you were for a while there ‘ad a voice that would’ve put a small volcano to shame. I should o’ thought o’ wot that might do when matched with your spellsingin’ ability. When I did, it were too late. All the rest o’ us could do was ‘ang on an’ ‘ope you wouldn’t sing us ‘alfway back to Ospenspri. I think ‘tis a mite safer ‘avin’ you just as you are, defurred an’ ‘uman ‘an all.”

Clothahump was trying to shake the dust out of his shell. “There can be such a thing as too much useful magic.” He gazed past his companions, toward the pass that was their immediate destination. “One thing more we can be certain of. There can no longer be any doubt that our quarry is aware we are coming. All of the north woods must have heard that noise.” The dust from the landslides was still settling on the flanks of the pass up ahead.

Jon-Tom was enjoying being himself once again. He looked down at his tanned bare arms and naked fingers, at the short, unfunctional nails. Turning them over, he inspected the pale, furless palms that had been callused by the time he’d spent in this world. Yes, he was glad to be human again.

And yet he couldn’t help but wonder at the musical worlds he might have conquered had he been able to change back while still retaining that incredible simian voice. He could have outsung an amplified choir. Then again, a voice that stimulated landslides instead of an audience might not be such a good idea. With such a voice, the old show business adage about bringing the house down might acquire a new and lethal meaning.

XI

Colin had to force himself to slow down. Excitement kept pushing him out ahead of the others. It was just that after more than a year of wandering, he was now close to his goal.

The character of the forest was changing, for which he was grateful. He was sick of evergreens and longed for the sweet, deciduous woods of home. The trees looming up just ahead were almost familiar. Instead of being thick and deeply scarred, their bark was thin and pale gray in color. Long strips of it peeled off the trunk and collected around the base of the tree. They had leaves, too, instead of the ubiquitous needles. Long, thin leaves shaded a pale green. The grove ahead even smelled different.

Then his eyes grew very wide. It couldn’t be. It was impossible for such trees to live this far north. Yet there they stood, straight and beckoning. Their delicious, distinctive aroma could not be faked.

Aware that he’d moved out in front again, he shrugged off his knapsack and let it tumble indifferently to the ground. His companions would catch up to him soon enough, he knew. He added his saber and scabbard to the pile. Then he rushed forward as fast as his bandy legs would carry him.

Soon he was standing next to the nearest of the trees, caressing the trunk, the long strips of peeled bark splintering beneath his feet. Using his claws, he shimmied rapidly up the trunk, then walked out onto the lowest branch capable of supporting his weight. His hand was shaking as he pulled free a handful of the distinctive, narrow leaves and shoved them raw into his mouth.

As he chewed, a subtle sensation of heavenly peace and well-being began to spread through his body. His eyes shut halfway as he devoured the superlative mouthful, but he could still see the ranks of trees climbing the southern hillside, ranging far up toward the peaks themselves.

For a koala a single grove of such tall wonders was all anyone could hope to own in a lifetime. Here was an entire forest growing wild on unclaimed land. Paradise, and a fortune for the claiming. He plucked another handful, being more selective this time, extracting the dead or blighted leaves before stuifing the rest into his mouth. Crossing his legs, he sat down on the branch, put his hands behind his head, and leaned back against the trunk as he chewed while staring up at the blue, blue sky.

His dried-and-cubed eucalyptus had run out months ago. Since then he’d been forced to eat whatever greenery he’d been able to scrounge from the woods. His stomach had been constantly upset, and eating became a chore instead of a pleasure. Beans, nuts, and pine needles were little better than garbage.

And now he sat on a branch of the True Tree, nibbling its bounty and reminiscing. And planning. For all he had to do was package this produce and ship it back home. Within a year he’d be independently wealthy. A third handful of leaves followed close on the stems of the first two. For the first time in months he was able to relax.

The sweeping panorama of endless, rolling meadow struck Dormas like a solid blow as they turned a bend in the trail. There had been no warning. They had been marching through tall pine forest, tramping around bushes, and shoving aside low-hanging branches, only to emerge unexpectedly onto the open grassland.

No normal meadow this. You could tell that right away. There were no trees enclosing it, none at all, and in consequence it stretched endlessly in all directions, conceding not even the horizon to the lowering sky. More incredible still, it was composed not of sedge and other grasses but of multiple varieties of clover. There was red clover and blue-green, dandelion clover and seven-sided shaboum, which has a nutty taste when chewed slowly. The air was thick with green sweetness.

Most unbelievably of all, the consistency and height of the clover hinted that this was that rarest of all grasslands, a virgin meadow. No teeth had cropped at that rain-cleansed greenness. It was such a meadow as browsers and grazers only dream of.

She broke into a gallop, not slowing even when she plunged into the fragile growth itself. It parted around her like a green sea around the prow of a ship until she slowed, panting, and finally bent to use her teeth on the rich reward. The first taste was indescribably pure.

Here was a playground unthought of since colthood, a place to rest and regain the strength lost during the long journey from Ospenspri. She lay down in the clover, rolling and kicking her legs, drunk with the very smell of it. Every taste was cool-fresh, as though each blade had just been kissed by the first morning’s dew. The occasional pungent clover flower only added spice to each exquisite mouthful.

The blossoms crushed underneath gave up their spring perfume to the air. Such a place could not be real, could not exist.

But it did, and she had it all to herself, a reward for a lifetime of hard work and ennobling sacrifice.

Flying scout duty, Sorbl couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. Below, the trees gave way suddenly to a wide expanse of golden-hued liquid. The lake lay just beyond the pass his poor land-bound companions were struggling through, nestled in the valley beyond.

At the far end it was a deep azure blue. But the southern third was no more than a foot deep, clear as glass above a bottom of smooth pebbles and pristine river sand. Swarming in incredible numbers above the gravel were more fish than he’d ever seen in one place in his life. The schools fought for swimming space, so thickly were they compacted. He picked out salmon and trout, bass and blue gill, their scales shining like metal in the midmorning sun.

There was no work involved, no strain. Precision was not required. You didn’t even have to take aim as you folded your wings and plummeted toward the water. All you had to do was open your talons and touch down to be certain of coming away with a fresh meal of white meat.

Nor was that the only surprise the lake held. It puzzled him at first, then confused him, and when he hit the water and snatched his first fish, it astonished him.

The water splashed over him as he swept up the golden trout in his claws. It washed down over his face and feathers. That was when he knew it to be true. It explained the lake’s golden hue.

Putting the trout aside for later eating, he hopped down to the water’s edge. A single sip provided confirmation enough. Fields of wild grain lined the lakeshore. Some inexplicable fermenting process had transformed centuries of grain growth, and the result had been leaching into the lake waters ever since. How the fish could not only survive but thrive in the result he didn’t know, but who was he to question such a wonder?

For the undeniable fact remained that the water was at least eighty-proof, and stronger in the shallows. Furthermore, different parts of the lake had different flavors, no doubt reflective of the particular grains growing along each section of shoreline. It was just like the master’s cleansing rainstorm over Ospenspri, only here one didn’t have to catch drops in one’s open beak. Here one could sample and sip at leisure.

He drank until he thought he would burst, then returned to his fish. Settling down on his tail, he hefted the trout in both wingtips and began gnawing away. Time enough later for cooking, if he felt like some variety. The raw flesh was delicious, firm, and undiseased.

Why spend years of drudgery as a wizard’s famulus when a fortune was staring him in the face? He would resign his service with Clothahump, fly back to Lynchbany or Ospenspri, and strike a deal with some major local brewer to bottle the lake and sell it all across the warmlands. As the discoverer, all he had to do was file a land claim with the nearest city recorder. He and his partners could supply every pub in the Bellwoods. He all but laughed himself silly as he thought of the anxiety and frustration that would infect the various municipal revenue agents as they wore themselves to a frazzle in a futile search to locate his hidden “distillery” so they could slap taxes on his produce.

And when he’d grown rich enough, he mused, he would hire Clothahump to work for him.

There was no way of telling how long the Library had been hidden from view, but it had obviously lain unvisited for a long time. Vines and creepers threaded their way over and through the ancient stone walls. Trees sent their roots through the foundation stones, and their spreading canopies concealed the building from above. It would have continued unnoticed had not Clothahump chosen just the right moment to look up to his left. He’d caught a glimpse of sunlight bouncing off neatly trimmed gray stone.

Frowning, he turned and waddled toward it. He recognized neither what remained of the architectural style nor the designs carved over the still-intact door. The nature of the structure remained a mystery until he managed to force his way inside. Fortunately the aged doors were rotten.

The sight thus revealed took his breath away. A Library it was, with row on row of shelves filled to the top with scrolls and books and all kinds of unfamiliar records. There were sheets and small round disks of plastic, each in its own protective sleeve; knotted ropes; and inscribed stone tablets. The more fragile materials had been preserved through the extensive use of superlative preservatives.

What people had raised this Library and set it here alone and by itself to be found by some fortunate passerby he could not tell, but it was clear that they had built for the ages. He wandered dazedly down one aisle after another, numbed by the sight of so much knowledge. Unbroken cases of thick glass lined the center of the floor, displaying beneath their transparent curves tomes as ancient as time. Some of the shelving was three stories high. Three separate mezzanines wound their way completely around the interior of the building. Each was backed by iron railings worked in the form of hieroglyphic writing. The building itself was so long, he could not see to the far end.

How much knowledge was stored in this place? he wondered. How many secrets of the eons? Impossible to estimate, foolish to guess. It would take years simply to count and catalog the millions of volumes within. Where even to begin?

An index of some kind, perhaps set alongside a great dictionary of languages and scripts. There must be something like that here, he thought excitedly. He headed toward the first of the glass cases, trembling with anticipation. All he had to do was locate the Library catalog. Within its depths would lie the answers to all the questions he’d spent nearly three hundred years pondering. The mysteries of the universe waited patiently on the shelves surrounding him, waiting only for him to look them up.

Another lifetime’s work lay spread out before him. The books and records had been awaiting his arrival for millennia. If he was fortunate he would be granted enough time to peruse a small part of the Library. It was a daunting prospect but one bursting with promise and excitement. He knew only that there was work to be done, and he fell to it with a will.

They’d gone and oversold the Coliseum, Jon-Tom mused as he strode out onto the stage to join his band. As he made his entrance a thunderous roar rose from the unseen crowd, from the milling mass out there beyond the footlights. The roar rose and fell, swollen by the hysteria barely kept in check out on the floor. It went on and on before changing into a deafening chant as thousands of fans began clapping in unison.

“J-T-M, J-T-M, J-T-M!” Jon-Tom’s initials and those of his band. He let them scream themselves out, teasing them, in no hurry to begin, waiting for them to cool down enough to hear. Offstage right their manager grinned broadly and made a circle with his thumb and forefinger. Jon-Tom returned the smile indulgently.

This was the last performance of their year-and-a-half-long world tour, the last of eight consecutive sellout nights at the Forum in Los Angeles. Bobby, his drummer, eyed him with concern, and Jon-Tom gave him a single reassuring nod. The drummer could only shake his head in amazement. Friends, critics, and fans alike wondered where J. T. got his stamina from, just as they wondered at his ability to do the same songs over and over, night after night, without displaying any signs of boredom or burnout. The whole music industry stood in awe of him.

And really, the secret of his enthusiasm was plain for anyone to see. He no longer sang for the money. He had plenty of money. Nor for fame, for he was a famous as any performer could be. No, he kept singing because of the fans, the fans who had supported him and made him what he was today. Tonight was special, and not just because it was the final night of the tour. It was special because of the fans.

The Grammy awards had been handed out two weeks ago, and he’d won more individual awards than any other performer in history. The fans had done that for him. Now there was talk, nothing more than vague rumors, of course, that because of the penetrating and powerful social commentary contained in his lyrics, the Nobel committee in Stockholm was giving serious consideration to awarding him a special prize. It would be the first time a popular composer and performer had been so honored. The Pulitzer for music, he had been assured, was already in the bag. And, of course, the minority party was asking him, or rather pleading with him, to put his career aside long enough to run for the vacant junior senatorial seat from the state of California.

Yes, it might have seemed like enough to overwhelm any one man, but not Jonathan Thomas Meriweather. He handled success and adulation with the same ease as he handled his favorite guitar. Though he basked in his fame, he was still just the same regular guy as always, he’d explained to the hordes of eager reporters who kept pestering him for quotable quotes.

Ah, well, he supposed, he’d tantalized them long enough. He adjusted the Fender’s strap, nodded toward his sidemen, and waited while Bobby started to work the crowd up all over again with his drums. A vast wave of adoration rolled forth from the audience to sweep over the stage in a great roar.

Yes, everything was going about as well as mortal man could expect, he told himself. He’d accomplished everything on this tour he could have hoped to do. No one knew yet, but tonight would be his last live performance. He was going to accept the offer to run for the vacant senatorial seat.

But something was not quite right. The strings of his guitar felt thin beneath his fingers. They seemed to stick, and there were more of them than there should have been. They ran the wrong way too. It didn’t seem to bother the crowd, which continued bellowing and screaming louder than ever, but it unnerved Jon-Tom. He turned his back on them, letting Bobby and Julio carry the opening overture while he fought to sort himself out. Wrong, wrong, there was definitely something wrong!

As he turned away from the crowd the shouts of jubilation faded away, taking the people with them. The cavernous walls of the Forum disappeared and with it the overweening feeling of contentment.

It was the noise that drew Mudge to the cave, the laughing and sounds of carousing, along with the faint odor of liquor and pungent dope sticks. He knew that he should tell his companions, but surely he could check out this one anomaly by himself. Besides, he’d left them far behind, chattering mindlessly among themselves.

There was no one posted on watch at the entrance to the burrow. If he couldn’t slip in, have a look-see around, and slip out again without being detected, of what use was he?

The tunnel was brightly illuminated by sweet-smelling torches instead of expensive spell-maintained glow bulbs. That suited him fine. He’d had enough of spelling and magicks. It led in and down before leveling off. The dirt floor gave way to smooth stone. A vein of malachite running through the pavement had been polished to a brilliant shine, the green-and-black waves undulating through the marble. He followed it toward the noise and smells.

A hundred yards on and the tunnel opened up onto a scene of sybaritic splendor. Ahead lay a chamber of epicurean delights. From the roof hung a massive chandelier ablaze with a thousand candles, each one fashioned of perfumed wax. He did not stop to consider how so enormous a fixture might have been brought into this place. He was too busy staring at the orchestra. It consisted of scantily clad females, each of whom was not only playing her instrument with consummate skill but clearing enjoying a personal and intimate relationship with it.

In fact, there wasn’t a male in the entire assembly. There were females of many species, but the majority were otters: sleek and smooth of fur, long of whisker, and sharp of tooth. Thirty of them were dancing to the wild music of the orchestra, spinning and swirling like dervishes. He observed them transfixed, frozen to the spot. Faced with such an unexpected and astonishing abundance of feminine pulchritude, what else could he do?

Not stand there forever, however much he might want to preserve the moment. He had not come alone. With great reluctance he turned to race back out the tunnel to inform his friends of what he’d discovered when a sharp, startled scream split the air. The music ceased. The dancing halted. So did Mudge. Every one of those shining, voluptuous beauties was staring straight at him.

“Look,” exclaimed one of the otterish houris into the lingering silence, “a malel”

Shrieks and giggles filled the chamber as they charged toward him.

“Now, lassies,” he said uneasily, putting up both hands and assuming a defensive posture. “Let’s not do anything drastic until we talk this over.”

They swarmed over him, their perfume overpowering, each fighting for the chance to touch and caress, to kiss and nip. Not struggling as hard as he might have, he found himself half pushed, half pulled into the chamber. The music resumed, freer and more undisciplined than before. They were inviting him to join them, he knew, in their celebration. To revel as he’d never reveled before. His friends were waiting, true but—they could wait. And if they couldn’t, well, they’d just have to get along without good old Mudge. He succumbed fully to euphoria.

Jon-Tom blinked, wiped at his eyes. He was gripping the duar so hard, his fingers hurt. Had he snapped out of it automatically or had he been fortunate enough to play a perturbation-canceling melody while still unconscious?

What had happened to the Forum, to the screaming crowd? Where there had been fans wild with delirium, fighting and reaching just to touch his boots, applauding and cheering every word that fell from his lips, now there was only rank upon rank of tall pine trees, of firs and spruces and an occasional young redwood. And their silence was deafening.

His companions surrounded him, but when he called out to them, they did not reply. They did not even seem to see him.

Colin sat up in a pine tree, munching away on pine needles and wearing the look of the exorbitantly stoned. Clothahump squatted beneath him, sheltered by two large roots. He was turning a flat rock over and over in his hands, a rapturous expression on his face. A sound made him turn to his left.

Dormas was rolling around in the dirt, her expression almost as beatific as Colin’s. She had dumped her pack, and their supplies lay scattered all over the ground. Sorbl lay close by, facedown in a muddy puddle of rainwater. He was blowing bubbles and making swimming motions with his wings. He was further gone than any of them. And Mudge— Jon-Tom searched the clearing anxiously. Where was Mudge?

A noise that was part growl and part moan came from off to his right. Holding his forehead (he had one hell of a headache), Jon-Tom stumbled off in that direction, trying to follow the sounds to their source.

They led him to a fallen log that the otter was embracing tightly, his face wreathed in a smile of languorous ecstasy. As soon as he saw what the otter was doing, Jon-Tom swallowed hard and turned away. During their travels Mudge had done absurd things, impractical things, even moderately disgusting things, but this—he tried to shut out the image that lingered in his mind as he considered what to do next.

Clothahump was the only one who looked half like himself. Jon-Tom walked up to the wizard and put a hand on his arm. He shook it hard.

“Wake up, sir! I don’t know where you are now, but you aren’t where you’re at. Please, Clothahump, answer me.”

The wizard ignored him. Trying to remember exactly how he’d returned to reality, Jon-Tom tried to reposition his fingers the same way on the duar. Taking a deep breath, he strummed a few chords without having the slightest idea what he might be playing,

It didn’t sound very pleasant, but maybe that was part of it. The wizard blinked, much as Jon-Tom had blinked. A startled expression came over his face.

“What, who’s that, what?” He finally focused on Jon-Tom, who was standing over him looking concerned. “Oh, it’s you, my boy. What is it?”

“Clothahump, where are you? Right now, this instant?”

“Now? Why, I am in the Library, of course! The great Library. What a wonder it is! I am so glad you have found it, too, my boy. I shall require all the help I can get in the many years ahead.” He displayed the weathered hunk of shale he was holding. “See, I have found the key already. Here is the first page of the index, clearly defined for any who cares to look, and easy even for the uninitiated to read.” He started to wave it toward something in front of him. He paused halfway through the wave, staring straight ahead as if paralyzed.

“Clothahump? Sir, are you all right?”

Another moment of silence, followed by a whisper of resignation. “There is no Library here, is there?”

“No, sir.” The wizard’s expression was pitiful to behold. “I’m sorry, sir. It was an illusion. I experienced one myself. I still don’t know if I came out of it because it had run its course or because I happened to hit the right notes on the duar.”

“Not an illusion, my boy.” The turtle swallowed hard. “A perturbation. Another cursed, damnable, cheating perturbation. You didn’t see it, then? The Library?”

“No, sir. My illusion was different. I was standing on a stage, performing, at the summit of my profession. A beautiful dream. The fulfillment of all my most heartfelt desires. I had everything I’d ever wanted.”

“And I as well. This time the perturbation drew on our innermost selves for its trickery.” He looked down at the piece of shale, then irritably tossed it aside. “We are all fools.”

“No, sir. Being fooled doesn’t make us fools. The perambulator affects geniuses as well as idiots.”

Clothahump smiled up at him. “You are trying to make me feel better, my boy. It isn’t working, but it is appreciated. Give me a hand up.” Jon-Tom did so. Then the wizard gave vent to as great a display of frustration as Jon-Tom had ever seen. Clothahump often grew incensed at others. Sorbl in particular. But never at himself. So Jon-Tom understood the depth of the wizard’s disappointment when he kicked the shale hard, sending it bouncing down the trail.

“I feel better for that. My foot does not, but the rest of me does. I was in a Library, my boy. Such a library as has never existed. It contained within its shelves all the knowledge of everything that is, ever was, and ever would be. A Library of the past, the present, and the future. All the answers were contained within its walls. That’s what I’ve dreamed about, what I’ve wanted all my life, my boy. A little wisdom and a few answers. It is not nice to be cheated by a phenomenon of un-nature.” He sighed deeply. “What of the others?”

Jon-Tom gestured to his left, then up toward Colin’s branch. “As you can see, sir, they’re still all suffering from their individual perturbations. Their respective illusions must have a stronger hold on them than yours or mine did on us.”

“Do not flatter yourself that your will or knowledge of reality is any stronger. You needed the music to bring me back to myself. I suspect you needed it to shock you back as well.”

Jon-Tom shrugged. “You’re probably right, sir. A little rock goes a long way.”

The wizard growled. “Don’t talk to me about rocks. Come, we have work to do. You use your spellsinging and I will employ my magic.”

Jon-Tom chose to revive Dormas. She was deeply embarrassed despite his assurances that she shouldn’t feel that way. They had all of them been equally bewitched. Nonetheless, she insisted on trotting off to recover and to suffer in peace. She also spent more than an hour walking back and forth through the forest, searching for the emerald meadow of clover and flowers and finding only dirt and scrub. Thus satisfied, she located a small mountain pool and thoroughly doused herself. From all the rolling about she’d done in her imaginary field, she was filthy from forehead to fetlock. The dirt washed off, but the anger and embarrassment did not.

Jon-Tom set about trying to put their supplies back into some kind of order while Clothahump sought to magic some reality into his famulus. When magic didn’t quite do the trick, the wizard began slapping the owl back and forth across his muddy beak. Perhaps it was the lingering magic, perhaps the slaps, or maybe the combination. In any case, Sorbl returned to them. Returned to them as drunk as if his perturbation had been real. Apparently certain mental effects were not as easily shaken off.

Finishing with the supplies, Jon-Tom climbed the big pine and got a firm grip on Colin. The koala was mumbling mantras to himself as he chewed on the pine needles, and Jon-Tom had to shake him hard while trying to play the right notes on the duar. Colin must have had a stronger grasp on reality than the rest of them because he snapped back immediately.

Unfortunately Jon-Tom had pushed a little too hard. The koala went over sideways right out of the tree and landed with a disquieting thunk on the hard ground below. He was also tougher than any of them, for he rolled over and was on his feet in seconds, looking around as though nothing had happened. The pose was an illusion itself. A moment later Colin staggered and sat down hard, put his face in his hands.

This was not because he had suffered a concussion from the fall, as Jon-Tom first feared. Just as Sorbl had retained the effects of his imaginary imbibing, so had Colin kept the by-product of chewing handfuls of eucalyptus leaves. As he explained to Jon-Tom, they were mildly narcotic. That was why koalas eating them full-time were always so sleepy and slow-moving. It would take awhile for the effect to wear off.

As for Mudge, once Clothahump got over the shock of his first sight of the otter, it took the two of them and Colin to pull him off his log. Whereupon they braced themselves for a confession of embarrassment that would put Dormas’s to shame. The otter’s response, however, was somewhat different. As soon as events had been explained to him, he let out a string of expletives and oaths and execrations such as this part of the world had never heard. The air trembled around them.

When he ran out of steam, not to mention insults and wind, he gave the remnants of the devastated log a swift kick, sending splinters flying, and stalked off to sulk by his lonesome.

“You’d think the degenerate water rat would be ashamed of himself,” Colin commented.

“I don’t think Mudge knows the meaning of the word. I think he’s upset because we brought him out of his dream. He’ll get over it, but it’ll take awhik.”

True to Jon-Tom’s word, the otter pouted for another hour, then shambled back to help with the repacking of the supplies. Not a word was said until the last bedroll was back in place, the last container of food strapped down and secure. Then he glanced up at his tall friend.

“Did you ‘ave to do it, mate? Bring me back, I mean?”

“What do you think, Mudge?” Jon-Tom checked the position of a sack of spare clothing on the hinny’s back. “It was just a perturbation, an illusion. It wasn’t real. I miss my own dream too. I had to bring you back.”

“I know that. We ‘ave a job to do an’ we’re all of us in this together. But did you ‘ave to bring me back so soon7”

“There’s no telling what might’ve happened if I’d waited any longer.” He worked on another strap that looked a little loose. Dormas glanced back at him.

“Take it easy back there, man. That’s not your shoe you’re tying, you know.”

“Sorry.” He let the binding up a notch. “If I hadn’t intervened when I did,, you might never come back to reality. Clothahump says you might’ve been stuck in that dreamworld forever.”

“Now would that ‘ave been so bloody awful?”

“Not for you, or for me, or for the rest of us, but it wouldn’t have brought us any nearer to our goal, and there are others depending on us.”

“That bleedin’ altruistic streak of yours again! I’ve warned you about that, mate.” He turned and stomped off in search of his longbow and sword, looking very unhappy.

Jon-Tom watched him go, considered what had happened to all of them. Each member of the group had seen their wildest fantasy come true. Unlike Mudge, however, none of the rest of them had any desire to succumb to that dreamworld for a lifetime. Eventually they would have given in to boredom, for when one has accomplished everything, even in a dream, there is nothing left to strive for. Clothahump explained it very clearly. Trapped in an illusion of complete fulfillment, unable to escape, the final result would have been not nirvana but death.

Now, if he could only think of a way to call it up for an hour or two at a time . . .

What might the perambulator be thinking? Did it think? Clothahump wasn’t sure if it possessed intelligence or not, or even if it did, if it assumed a recognizable form. Did it dream, and if so, what might something capable of traveling between universes and dimensions dream of? Certainly it was confused. Confused and nervous. The by-products of this space-time traverser’s anxiety were increasingly frequent perturbations. Interdimensional sweat.

There was no malice in them, save for those that the perambulator’s captor might be directing. The last one had left them all feeling better, though relieved at its end. Perhaps the perambulator suffered with each change just as they did.

As they climbed toward the pass he found that he no longer wanted to free the perambulator simply to stop the disturbing changes it was foisting on the world. He wanted to free it because it was the right thing to do for the perambulator itself, whether it was capable of emotion or feeling or not. As a child, he’d once been locked in a trunk by some friends. That caged feeling had never left him. He knew what it was like to be trapped, unable to run, hardly able to move. Nothing deserved a fate like that, not even something as inexplicable and otherworldly as a perambulator.

We’re not going to loosen a piece of frozen machinery, he told himself. We’re on our way to perform a rescue.

Clothahump called a halt just below the top of the pass.

They took shelter from the wind that blew steadily through the gap in the mountains.

“It would be useful to know what lies ahead and worth making the effort to find out. Would you be good enough to try, rune-caster?”

Colin sought out a protected spot beneath an overhanging granite ledge. “No promises now, friends. I’m willing to make the attempt, but don’t expect too much.”

“Anything you can tell us will be a great deal more than what we presently know about tomorrow, which is nothing,” Clothahump pointed out.

“Right. So long as you don’t expect too much.”

The sun gleamed off the silver thread as the koala removed the rune pouch from his knapsack. Everyone gathered close as he untied it and spread the leather out flat on the hard ground. They waited quietly while he went through his preparations, finally picking up the runes and letting them fall onto the leather square. No one spoke; everyone stared.

Jon-Tom tried to find some recognizable pattern, to make some sense of the double handful of bone and stone and fabric spread out before him. He found nothing but the beginnings of a slight headache from concentrating too hard. Much as it bothered him to confess to ignorance, he had to admit that Mudge’s description of the runes as so much garbage was as accurate as anything he could think of himself.

Clothahump was staring intently at the debris and nodding slowly to no one in particular. Whether the wizard actually understood any of what he was looking at or was just trying to keep up appearances, Jon-Tom couldn’t tell, and thought it undiplomatic to inquire.

When he finally spoke, Colin’s voice was unusually soft and thoughtful. “You were right, Old One. He knows we’re coming.”

“What can you see?” Clothahump asked anxiously. “Can you tell anything of it at all? Size, strength, mental powers, anything that would be useful in compiling a profile? Any indication at all of whom we are up against?”

“First that ‘he’ is accurate. There are too many signs of maleness for it to be otherwise. And there are many suggestions of magic. A wizard or sorcerer of some kind, surely. The forest fire that almost engulfed us may not have been a perturbation after all. There is power at work here, enough to constitute a threat on its own, without the aid of a perambulator.”

Clothahump spoke quietly but firmly. “Is his power greater than mine?” He waited silently for the rune-reader to reply. They all did. Even the skeptical Mudge looked on anxiously.

“I cannot say that it is stronger,” Colin finally declared. “Different certainly, in a manner I can’t describe or understand. I’m only a rune-caster, not a sorcerer myself.”

“What else do you see?” Dormas asked him.

“He will not let the perambulator go without a fight. We will be strongly opposed. At that time one among us must take the lead. Only that one has the ability and strengths to see us through the final confrontation. At that time also, Wizard, your knowledge and experience will be of paramount importance to our survival. All of us may have to sacrifice, but one of us will be the key. Only he can counter what our opponent will throw against us.” He looked up then to stare at Jon-Tom. So did the others.