drops pelting the low ceiling, until the sun rose and pushed
aside the clouds. Then it was on once more, borne swiftly but
smoothly in the gentle grip of the river.
Jon-Tom did not fully appreciate the height of Zaryt's
Teeth until the third day. They entered me first foothills that
morning. The river cut its way insistently through the green-
cloaked, rolling mounds. Compared to the nearing moun-
tains, the massive hillocks were merely bruises on the earth.
Here and there great lumps of granite protruded through the
brush and topsoil. They reminded Jon-Tom of the fingertips
of long-buried giants and brought back to him the legends of
these mountains. While not degenerating into rapids, the river
nonetheless increased its pace, as if anxious to carry those
traveling upon it to some unexpected destination.
Several days passed during which they encountered nothing
suggestive of habitation. The hills swelled around them,
becoming rockier and more barren. Even wildlife hereabouts
was scarce.
Once they did drift past a populated beach. A herd of
unicorns was backed up there against the water. Stallions and
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Alan Dean Foster
marcs formed a semicircle with the water at their backs
protecting the colts, which snorted and neighed nervously.
Pacing confusedly before the herd's defensive posture wa
a pack of perhaps a dozen lion-sized lizards. They were sleei
as whippets and their red and white scales gleamed in th
sunlight.
As the travelers cruised past, one of the lizards sprang
trying to leap over the adults and break the semicircle
Instead, he landed on the two-foot-long, gnarly hom of one
of the stallions.
A horrible hissing crackled like fresh foil through the day
and blood fountained in all directions, splattering colts and
killer alike. Bending his neck, the unicorn used both forehooves
to shove the contorted body of the dying carnivore oflf his
head.
The boat drifted around a bend, its passengers ignorant of
the eventual outcome of the war. Blood from the impaled
predator flowed into the river. The red stain mindlessly
stalked the retreating craft....
90
VI
It was the following afternoon, when they rounded a benc
in the river, that Jon-Tom thought would surely be their last.
The foothills had grown steadily steeper around them. They
were impressive, but nonexistent compared to the sheer
precipices that suddenly rose like a wall directly ahead
Clouds veiled their summits, parting only intermittently to
reveal shining white caps at the higher elevations; snow and
ice that never melted. The mottled stalks of conifers looked
like twigs where they marched up into the mists.
It was a seamless gray cliff which rose up unbroken ahead
of the raft. Solid old granite, impassable and cold.
Bribbens was neither surprised nor perturbed by this im-
passable barrier. Leaning hard on the sweep, he turned the
boat to port. At first Jon-Tom thought they would simply
! ground on me rocks lining the shore, but when they rounded
a massive, sharp boulder he saw the tiny beach their boatman
was aiming for.
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Alan Dean Foster
It was a dry notch cut into the fringe of the mountain.
Warm water slapped against his boots as the boat's passen-
gers scrambled to pull it onto the sand. Driftwood mixed with
the blackened remnants of many camp fires. The little cove
was the last landing point on the river.
On the visible river, anyway.
The wind tumbled and rolled down the sheer cliffs. It
seemed to be saying, "Go back, fools! There is nothing
beyond here but rock and death. Go back!" and a sudden
gust would send Talea or Mudge stumbling westward as the
wind tried to urge their retreat.
Jon-Tom waded out into the river until the water lapped at
his boot tops. Leaning around a large, slick rock, he was able
to see why Bribbens had rowed them into the protected cove.
Several hundred yards downstream, downstream was no
more. An incessant crackling and grinding came from the
river's end. An immense jam of logs and branches, bones,
and other debris boiled like clotted pudding against the gray
face of the mountain. Foam thundered on rock and wood like
cold lava.
He couldn't see where the water vanished into the moun-
tainside because of the obstructing flotsam, but from time to
time a log or branch would be sucked beneath the brow of the
cliff, presumably into the cavern beyond. The thickness of the
jam suggested that the cave opening into the mountain couldn't
be more than a few inches above the wateriine. If it were
higher, he would have been able to see it as a dark stain on
the granite, and if lower, the river would have backed up and
drowned out, among other things, me cove they were beached
upon.
But the opening must be quite deep, because the river had
narrowed until it was no more than thirty yards wide where it
ground against the mountainside, and the current was no
swifter than usual.
92
THE HOUR OF THE GATS,
"What do we do now?" Flor had waded out to stand next
to him. She watched as logs several yards thick spun and
bounced off the rock. They must have weighed thousands of
pounds and were waterlogged as well.
"There's no way we can move any of that stuff upstream
against the current."
"It doesn't matter," he told her. "Even if Clothahump
could magic them aside, the opening's still much too low to
let the boat through."
"So it seems." Bribbens stood on the sand behind them.
He was unloading supplies from the boat. "But we're not
going in that way. That is, we are, but we're not."
"I don't follow you," said Jon-Tom.
"You will. You're paying to." He grinned hugely. "Why
do you think the Sloomaz-ayor-le-WeentU is called also The
Double River, The River of Twos?"
"I don't know." Jon-Tom was irritated at his ignorance. "I
thought it forked somewhere upstream. It doesn't tell me how
we're going to get through there," and he pointed at the
churning, rumbling mass of jackstraw debris.
"It does, if you know."
"So what do we do first?" he said, tired of riddles.
"First we take anything that'll float off the boat," was the
boatman's order.
"And then."
"And then we pole her out into the middle of the current,
open her stoppers, and sink her. After we've anchored her
securely, of course."
Jon-Tom started to say something, thought better of it.
Since the frog's statement was absurd and since he was
clearly not an idiot, then it must follow that he knew some-
thing Jon-Tom did not. When confronted by an inexplicable
claim, he'd been taught, it was better not to debate until the
supporting evidence was in.
"I still don't understand," said Flor confusedly.
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Alan Dean Foster
"You will," Bribbens assured her. "By the way, can you
both swim?"
"Fairly well," said Jon-Tom.
"I don't drown," was Hor's appraisal.
"Good. I hope the other human is likewise trained.
"For the moment you can't do anything except help with
the unloading. Then I suggest you relax and watch."
When the last buoyant object had been removed from the
boat, they took the frog at his word and settled down on the
beach to observe.
Bribbens guided the little vessel out into the river. On
locating a place that suited him (but that looked no different
from anywhere else to Jon-Tom and Hor) he tossed over bow
and stem anchors. Sunlight glistened off the boatman's now