river?"
Bribbens rested in his seat at the stem, one arm draped
protectively across the steering oar.
"Because I've been in and out of it many times, lady.
Anyway, no matter where you are on the river the anchors
always bite into the second bottom."
Here and there the warm glow of the bioluminescents
would fade and then vanish. At such times they had to rely on
106
THE HOUR OF THE GATE
me lamps for light until they reached another fluorescent
section.
It didn't bother Pog. He'd finally recovered from his
lengthy grumpiness. To him the darkness was natural, and he
enjoyed the stretches of no-light. They could hear him swooping
and darting beyond the range of the boat's lamps, playing
dodgem with the cave formations. Sometimes he'd leave the
boat for long stretches of time, much to Clothahump's dis-
pleasure and concern, only to have his internal sonar unerringly
bring him back to the ship many hours later.
"Beautiful," Jon-Tom was murmuring as he watched the
glowing shapes drift past. "It's absolutely beautiful."
Talea stood next to him and eyed the dark openings that
branched off from the main cavern. Sometimes these gaping
holes would come right down to the river's edge.
"Funny idea of beauty you have, Jon-Tom. I don't like it at
all."
"Humans got no appreciation of caves," said Pog with a
snort, weaving in the air above them. "Dis all wasted on ya
except da spellsinger dere, an' dat's da truth!"
"Can I help it if I prefer light to dark, freedom to
confinement?" she countered.
"Amen," said Flor heartily.
For both women the initial loveliness of the formations had
been surrendered to the superstitious dread most people hold
of deep, enclosed places. Jon-Tom was the only one with a
real interest in caves, and so he was somewhat immune to
such fears. To him the immense shapes, laid down patiently
over the ages by dripping water and dissolved limestone,
were as exquisite as anything the world of daylight had to
offer.
Flor and Talea were not alone in their nervousness, however.
"I think I liked it better inside the rivers," Mudge said one
morning. "Leastwise there a chaploiew where 'e was, wot?"
107
Alan Dean Foster
He indicated the darkness of a large, unilluminated sic
passage with a sweep of one furry arm. "Don't care much tc
this place atall. I ain't ready t' be buried just yet."
"Superstition," Clothahump muttered. "The bane (
civilization."
As for their boatman, he remained as calm as if he'd bee
sailing familiar waters.
"Does this place have a name?" Jon-Tom asked him
watching a clump of bright azure mushrooms on the shore,
"Only in legend." Bribbens looked away for a moment.
An impossibly long tongue flicked out and snared something
which Jon-Tom saw only as a ghost of glittering, transparent
wings and body.
The frog smacked his lips appraisingly. "No color, but the
flavor isn't bad." He nodded at the cavern. "In stories and
legends of the riverfolk this is known as the Earth's Throat.''
"And where does it go?" Bor asked him.
Bribbens shrugged. "Who knows? Your hard-shelled men
tor believes it to travel much of the way through the mow
tains. Perhaps he's right. I prefer to think we'll come ou
there instead of, say, the earth's belly."
"That doesn't sound very nice." Nearby Talea fingered the
haft of her knife as though she could intimidate the surrounding
darkness with it.
Or whatever else might be out there....
108
VII
They were beginning to think they might complete the
passage through the Teeth (or at least to the end of the river)
without mishap. Long days of idle drifting, the boat carried
smoothly by the current, had lulled the fears they'd acquired
on the Swordsward.
Pog, his hearing more acute than anyone else's, was first to
note the noise.
"Off key," he explained in response to their queries, "but
it's definitely somebody's idea of song. More than one of
whatever it is, too."
"I'm sure of it." Caz's long ears were cocked alertly
toward the northern shore. They twitched in counterpoint to
his busy nose.
It was several minutes more before the humans could hear
the subject of their companion's intense listening. It was a
rhythmic rising and falling, light and ethereal as an all-female
109
Alan Dean Foster
choir might produce. Definitely music, but nothing recogniz-
able as words.
It was occasionally interrupted by a few moments of vivace
modulation that sounded like laughter. Jon-Tom could appre-
ciate the peculiar melodies, but he didn't care for the laughter-
chords one bit.
Bribbens interrupted their listening, his tone quiet as al-
ways but unusually urgent. "Tiller's not answering properly."
Indeed, the boat was drifting steadily toward the north
shore. There was a gravel beach and rocks: not much of a
landing place. Muscles strained beneath the boatman's slick
skin as he fought the steering, but the boat continued to
incline landward.
Soon they were bumping against the first rocks. These
obstacles poked damp dark heads out of the water around the
boat.
Flor stumbled away from the railing on the opposite side
and screamed. Jon-Tom rushed to join her. He stared over the
side and recoiled instinctively.
Dozens of shapes filled the water. They had their hands on
the side of the boat and were methodically pushing at it evec
though it was already half grounded on the rocky bottom.
"Steady now," said Talea wamingly. She stood at the bow,
her knife and sword naked in the glow-light, and pointed tc
me land.
A great number of creatures were marching toward the
boat. They were identical to the persistent pushers in the
water. All were approximately five feet tall and thin to the
point of emaciation. They were faintly human, memories of
almost-people parading in unison.
Two legs and two arms. They were nude but smooth-
bodied and devoid of external sex organs. For that matter they
displayed nothing in the way of differentiating characteristics
They might have been stamped from a single mold.
110
THK HOVR OF THE GATE
Their white flesh was truly white, blank-white, like milk
and bordering on translucence. Two tiny coal-pit eyes sat in
the puttylike heads where real eyes ought to have been. There
were no pupils, no ears or nostrils, and only a flat slit of a
mouth cutting the flesh below the eye-dots. Hands had short
fingers, which along with the legs looked jointless as rubber.
In time to the music they marched toward the ship, waving
their arms slowly and hypnotically while singing their moan-
ing, methodical song.
Jon-Tom looked to Clothahump. The wizard looked baf-
fled. "I don't know, my boy. None of the legends says
anything about a tribe of albino chanters living in the Throat."
He called to the marchers.
"What are you called? What is it you want of us?"
"What can we do for you?" Flor asked, adding something
unintelligible in Spanish.
The singers did not respond. They descended the slight
slope of the beach with fluid grace. The ones in the lead
began reaching, clutching over the railing.
Two of them grabbed Talea's right arm. "Ease back
there," she ordered them, pulling away. They did not let go
and continued to tug at her insistently.
Several other pale singers were already on the deck and