mis sort of thing would be. Being murdered by ignorant
aborigines doesn't fit the rest. Can they actually kill us?"
"I think they can." Jon-Tom was too tired and afraid even
to be sarcastic. "And I think we'll actually die, and actually
be buried, and actually be food for worms. If we don't get out
from here." He looked across at Clothahump, but the wizard
could only close his eyes apologetically.
If we could just lower the gag in Clothahump's mouth
when they're busy elsewhere, he thought anxiously. Some
kind of spell, even one that would just distract them, would
be enough.
But while the Mimpa were uncivilized they were clearly
not fools, nor quite so ignorant as Caz believed. That night
they confidently ignored all their captives except the carefully
watched Clothahump.
At or near midnight they were all made the centerpiece of a
robust celebration. Grass was cut down with tiny axes to form
a cleared circle, and the captives were deposited near the
center, amid a ground cover of foul-smelling granular brown
stuff.
Plor wrinkled her nose, tried breathing through her mouth
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Alan Dean Foster
instead. "Mierda... what have they covered the ground here
with?"
"I believe it is dried, powdered lizard dung," said Caz
worriedly. "I fear it will ruin my stockings."
"Part of the ceremony?" Jon-Tom had grown accustomed
to strange smells.
"I think it may be more than that, my friend. It appears to
retard the growth of the Sward grasses. An efficient if
malodorous method of control."
Small fires were lit in a circle, uncomfortably near the
bound prisoners. Jon-Tom would have enjoyed the resultant
celebration for its barbaric splendor and enthusiasm, were it
not for the fact that he was one of the proverbial pigs at the
center of the banquet table.
"You said they'd sacrifice us to the gods of the Sward."
As he spoke to Caz he fought to retain both confidence and
sanity. "What gods do they have in mind?" His thoughts
were of the lithe, long-limbed predators they'd seen sliding
ribbonlike through the grass their first week out of Polastrindu.
"I have no idea as yet, my friend." He sniffed disdainfully.
"Whatever, I'm sure it will be a depressing way for a
gentleman to die."
"Is there another way?" Even Mudge's usually irrepress-
ible good humor was gone.
"I had hoped," replied the rabbit, "to die in bed."
Mudge let out a high whistle, some of his good spirits
returning. "0' course, mate. Now why didn't I think o' that
right off? This 'ole miserable situation's got me normal
thinkin' paths crossed whixwize. And not alone, I'd wager."
"Not alone your whixwized thoughts, or dying in bed?"
asked Caz with a smile.
"Sort o' a joint occasion is wot I'd 'ave in mind." Again
the otter whistle, and they both laughed.
50
THE HOUR Or THE GATE
"I'm glad somebody thinks this is fanny." Talea glared at
them both.
"No," said Caz more quietly, "I don't think it's very
funny at all, glowtop. But our hands and feet are bound, I can
reach no familiar salve or balm from our supplies though I am
bruised all over. I can't do anything about the damage to my
body, but I try to medicate the spirit. Laughter is soothing to
that."
Jon-Tom could see her turn away from the rabbit, her badly
tousled hair even redder in the glow from the multiple fires.
Her shoulders seemed to droop and he felt an instinctive
desire to reach out and comfort her.
Odd the occasions when you have insights into the person-
alities of others, he thought. Talea struck him as unable to
find much laughter at all in life, or, indeed, pleasure of any
kind. He wondered at it. High spirits and energy were not
necessarily reflective of happiness. He found himself feeling
sorry for her.
Might as well feel sorry for yourself, an inner voice
reminded him. If you don't slip loose of these pygmy para-
noids you soon won't be able to feel sorry for anyone.
Unable to pull free of his bonds, he started working his
way across the circle, trying to come up against a rock sharp
enough to cut diem. But the soil was thick and loamy, and he
encountered nothing larger than a small pebble.
Failing to locate anything else he tried sawing patiently at
his ropes with fingernails. The tough fiber didn't seem to be
parting in the least. Eventually the effort exhausted him and
he slid into a deep, troubled sleep....
Sl
IV
It was morning when next he opened his eyes. Smoke
drifted into the cloudy sky from smoldering camp fires,
fleeing the still, swardless circle like bored wraiths.
Once more the carrying poles were brought into use and he
felt himself lifted off the ground. Flor went up next to him,
and the others were strung out behind. As before, the journey
was brief. No more than three or four hundred yards from the
site of the transitory village, he estimated.
Quite a crowd had come along to watch. The poles were
removed. Mimpa gathered around the six limp bodies. Chattering
among themselves, they arranged their captives in a circle,
back to back, their legs stuck out like the spokes of a wheel.
Arms were bound together so that no one could lie down or
move without his five companions being affected. A large
post was placed in the center of the circle, hammered exuberantly
into the earth, and the prisoners shoulders bound to it.
They sat in the center of a second clearing, as smelly as the
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Alan Dean Foster
first. The Mimpa satisfied themselves that the center pole was
securely in the ground and then moved away, jabbering
excitedly and gesturing in a way Jon-Tom did not like at the
captives ringing the pole.
Despite the coolness of the winter morning and the consid-
erable cloud cover, he was sweating even without his cape.
He'd worked his nails and wrists until all the nails were
broken and blood stained the restraining fibers. They had
been neither cut nor loosened.
Along with other useless facts he noted that the grass
around them was still moist from the previous night's rain
and that his feet were facing almost due north. Clothahump
was struggling to speak. He couldn't make himself under-
stood around the gag and in any case didn't have the strength
in his aged frame to continue the effort much longer.
"We can move our legs, anyway," Jon-Tom pointed out,
raising his bound feet and slamming them into the ground.
"Actually, they have secured us in an excellent defensive
posture," agreed Caz. "Our backs are protected. We are not
completely helpless."
"If any of those noulps show up, they'll find out what kind
of legs I have," said Flor grimly, kicking out experimentally
with her own feet.
"Lucky noulps," commented Mudge.
"What a mind you have, otter. La cabeza bizzaro." She
drew her knees up to her chest and thrust out violently. "First
predator that comes near me is going to lose some teeth. Or
choke on my feet."
Jon-Tom kicked outward again, finding the expenditure of
energy gratifying. "Maybe they'll be like sharks and have
sensitive noses. Maybe they'll even turn toward the Mimpa,
finding them easier prey than us."
"Mayhap," said Caz, "but I think you are all lost in
wishful thinking, my friends." He nodded toward the muttering,
54
THE HOUR OF THE GATS
watchful nomads. "Evidently they are not afraid of whatever
they are waiting for. That suggests to me a most persistent