of it."
"Sounds convincin' enough for me, 'e does." Mudge
leaned out of the wagon and spoke brightly. "That settles
that: time to turn about for 'ome."
Ion-Tom looked over his shoulder at the green-capped face
"That does not settle it."
72
THE HOUR Or THE GATE
Mudge shrugged cheerfully. "Can't biff a bloke for tryin',
mate. I ought t' know better, I knows it, but somethin' in me
insists on tryin' t' fight insanity in the ranks."
"Ya ought ta have more faith in da master." Pog fluttered
above the wagon and chided the otter. "Ya oughta believe in
him and his abilities and great talents." He drifted lower
above Mudge and whispered. "Frankly, we all been candi-
dates for da fertilizer pile since we started on dis half-assed
trek, but if da boss tinks we gots to go on, we don't got much
choice. Don't make him mad, chum."
But Jon-Tom had overheard. He walked back to stand next
to the wagon. "Clothahump knows what he's doing. I'm sure
if things turned suicidal he'd listen to reason."
"Ya tink dat, does ya?" Pog's small sharp teeth flashed as
he hovered in front of Jon-Tom. One wing pointed toward the
turtle, who was still conversing with the old otter.
"Da boss has kept Mudge from runnin' off and abandonin'
dis trip wid t'reats. What makes ya tink he'd be more polite
where you're concerned?"
"He owes me a debt," said Jon-Tom. "If I insisted on
remaining behind, I don't think he'd try to coerce me."
Pog laughed, whirled around in black circles. "Dat's what
you tink! Ya may be a spellsinger, Jon-Tom-mans, but you're
as naive as a baby's belly!' He rose and skimmed off over
the river, hunting for insects and small flying lizards.
"Is that your opinion too, Mudge? Do you think Clothahump
would keep me from leaving if that's what I wanted?"
"I wouldn't 'ave 'alf a notion, mate. But since you say you
want to keep on with this madness, there ain't no point in
arguin' it, is there?" He retreated back inside the wagon,
leaving Jon-Tom to turn and walk slowly back down to the
riverbank. Try as he would to shove the thought aside, it
continued to nag him. He looked a little differently at
Clothahump.
73
Alan Dean Foster
"There be only one way ye might get even partway s
through," continued the old otter, "and if yer lucky, out
again alive. That's to have a damn good boatman. Qne who
knows how to maneuver on the Second river. That's the only
way ye'll even get inside the mountain."
"Can you recommend such an individual?" asked
Clothahump.
"Oh, I know of several good boatfolk," the oldster boasted.
He turned, spat something brown and viscous into the water,
then looked from the turtle to Jon-Tom. "Trouble for ye is
that ain't none of 'em idiots. And that's going to be as
important a qualification as any kind of river skill, because
only an idiot's going to try and take ye where ye wants to
go!"
"We have no need of your sarcasm, young fellow," said
Clothahump impatiently, "only of your advice. If you would
rather not give us the benefit of your knowledge, then we will
do our best to find it elsewhere."
"All right, all right. Hang onto ye shell, ye great stuffed
diviner of catastrophes!
"There's one, just one, who might be willing to help ye
out. He's just fool enough to try it and just damnblast good
enough to bring it off. Whether ye can talk him into doin' so
is something else again." He gestured to his left.
"Half a league farther on you'll find that the riverbank
rises steeplike. Still farther you'll eventual come across sev-
eral large oaks overlooking a notch or drop in the cliffs. He's
got his place down there. Goes by the name of Bribbens
Oxiey."
"Thank you for your help," said Clothahump.
"Would it help if we mentioned your name to him?"
Jon-Tom wondered.
The otter laughed, his whistles skipping across the water.
"Hai, man, the only place me name would help you is in the
74
THE HOUR OF THE GATS
better whorehouses in Wottletowne, and that's not where ye
are going!"
Clothahump reached into one of his plastron compart-
ments, withdrew a small silver coin, and offered it to the
otter. The oldster stepped away, waving his hands.
"No, no, not for me, friend! I take no payment for
assisting the doomed." He gathered up his pole and gear and
ambled crookedly off upstream.
"Nice of him to give us that name," said Jon-Tom,
watching the other depart. "Since he wouldn't take the
money, why didn't we try to help his arthritis?"
"Arth.. .his joint-freezes, you mean, boy?" Clothahump
adjusted his spectacles. "It is a long spell and requires time
we do not have." He turned resolutely toward the wagon.
Jon-Tom continued to stand there, watching the crippled
otter make his loping way eastward. "But he was so helpful."
"We do not know that yet," the turtle insisted. "I was
willing to chance a little silver on it, but not a major medical
spell. He could simply have told us his stories to impress us,
and the name to get rid of us."
"Awfully cynical, aren't you?"
Clothahump gazed up at him as they both scrambled into
the wagon. "My boy, the first hundred years Of life teaches
you that no one is inherently good. The next fifty tells you
that no one is inherently bad, but is shaped by his surround-
ings. And after two hundred years... give me a hand there,
that's a good boy." Jon-Tom helped lug the bulky body over
the wooden rail and into the wagon.
"After two hundred years, you leam that nothing is pre-
dictable save that the universe is full of illusions. If the
cosmos withholds and distorts its truths, why should we
expect less of such pitifully minute components of it as that
otter... or you, or me?"
75
Alan Dean Foster
Jon-Tom was left to ponder that as the wagon once more
rolled noisily westward.
Everyone hoped the oldster's recommendation was sounder
than his estimate of distance, for it took them two full days of
traveling before they encountered three massive oaks domi-
nating a low dip in the riverbank. While still a respectable
width, the river had narrowed between the higher banks and
ran with more power, more confidence, and occasional flecks
of foam.
Still, it didn't appear particularly dangerous or hard to
navigate to Jon-Tom. He wondered at the need for a guide.
The river was far more gentle than the rapids they had passed
(admittedly with Falameezar's muscle) on the journey to
Polastrindu.
The path that wound its careful way down to the shore was
narrow and steep. The lizards balked at it. They had to be
whipped and cajoled downward, their claws shoving at the
dirt as they tried to move backward instead of down the
slope. Gravel and rocks slid over the side of the path. Once
they nearly had a wheel slip over the edge, threatening to
plunge wagon and lizards and all ass-over-heels into the tiny
chasm. Verbally and physically, however, they succeeded in
eventually getting the lizards to the bottom.
Reeds and ferns dominated the little cove in which they
found themselves. To the left, hunkered up tight against the
cliffs, they found a single low building. It was not much
bigger than a shack. A few small circular windows winked
like eyes as they approached it, peering out beneath brows of
adobe and thatching. Smoke curled lazily from the brown and
gray rock chimney made of rounded river stones.