Jon-Tom frowned; someone had spoken above the reverberant
bellowing. He looked across at Clothahump.
"The Massawrath." The wizard noticed Jon-Tom staring at
him, and he repeated the name. "I have seen it in visions, my
boy, suspected it in trances, but to have located its lair... Is it
not appalling and unique? Do you not recognize any of this?"
"Recognize...? Clothahump, have you gone mad? Or
have we all? Or is it just that... that..."
He hesitated. For all its utterly alien appearance, there was
truly something almost familiar about the apparition.
Again the pseudopod slapped at them. There was a broken
groan from the boat. The tip of the massive appendage had
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Alan Dean Foster
struck just to Clothahump's left, tearing away railing along
with a bit of the deck. The turtle had instinctively withdrawn
and rolled several yards bowward. There he stuck out arms
and legs once more and struggled to his feet while Bribbens
rowed harder than ever and quietly cursed the abomination
pursuing them.
Several partly formed white shapes had fallen from the end
of the pseudopod. They lay on deck, their uncompleted limbs
thrashing slowly. Among them was a head that had not grown
a proper body and a lower torso the chest region of which
tapered to a point.
Jon-Tom pulled in his oar and began kicking the disgusting
things over the side. The last one clutched and pulled at him.
It had arms but no legs. He was forced to touch it. Somehow
he kept down his nausea and pulled it away from his legs.
The white, rubbery flesh was cold as ice. He lifted it and
heaved it over the railing, its weak grip sliding along his arm.
It splashed astern while the Massawrath hunched its way over
boulders and stalagmites, pacing just aft of the racing ship
and gibbering mindlessly.
"If the river narrows and brings us in reach, we're fin-
ished." Talea spoke in a high, nervous voice and wrestled
with the long oar.
"What is it?" Jon-Tom wiped his hands on his pants but
the clamminess he'd picked off the flesh wouldn't dry. He
raised his oar and shoved it back into the water.
"The Massawrath," Clothahump repeated. His hurried
tumble across the deck apparently hadn't affected him. "She
is the Mother of Nightmares. This is her lair, her home."
Jon-Tom tried not to watch the loping gray slime. Bits of
congealed white, animated puddings, continued to drip from
those vast flanks, climb to their feet, and march for the water.
They remained at least twenty yards astern though they kept
up their pursuit. They did not have the muscular strength (if
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THE HOUR Or THE GATE
they had muscles, Jon-Tom thought) to overtake the boat. An
anny of fellow singers surged and marched around the base of
the Massawrath. Some were indifferently squished beneath
the vast mass, others shoved aside into the water.
"And what are the white things?" Flor forced herself to
ask.
Clothahump peered over his glasses at her in evident
surprise. "Why child, what would you expect the Mother of
Nightmares to produce, except nightmares? I asked if you
recognized them. Having no dreams to invade they are
presently unformed, shapeless, incipient. Here in their place
of birthing they are partly solid. When they pass out and into
the minds of thinking creatures they have become thin as
wind. Their lives are brief, empty, and full of torment."
"Wha-at?" Caz swallowed, tried again. "What does the
blasted thing want with us?" The fur was as stiff on his neck
as the nails of a yogi's board.
"Nightmares need dreams to feed on," explained the
wizard. "Minds on which to fasten. What the Massawrath
Mother feeds on I can only imagine, but I am not ready to
offer myself to find out. I do not think it would be pleasant to
be nightmared to death. Mayhap she feeds on the loose minds
of the mad, carried back to her by those fragments of
nightmare offspring that survive longer than a night. It is said
the insane never awaken."
It continued to trail them, roaring and moaning. Pale things
fell like white sweat from her back and sides. Occasionally a
fresh appendage, gray and wet, would extend out toward
them. It did not again come close enough to contact the boat.
Jon-Tom remembered Talea's frantic warning: if anything
forced them nearer the Massawrath's shore they would be
better off killing each other.
Another worry was the vibration he'd been feeling for more
than a few minutes. Though it steadily intensified, it seemed
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Alan Dean Poster
to have no connection with the pursuing Mother of Night-
mares. Soon a vast thunder filled his ears, powerful enough to
reduce even the Massawrath's moan to a faint wailing.
Still it grew in volume. Now the maddened gray hulk
struck out at the boat with dozens of pseudopods of many
lengths. They raised water from the river and dropped dozens
of slimy nightmares behind the boat.
The roaring grew louder still, until it and the vibration
underfoot merged and were one. Exhausted from wrestling
with the steering sweep, Bribbens leaned across it and tried to
catch his breath. Then he frowned, staring over the bow.
Several minutes went by and an expression of great calm
came over his face.
Jon-Tom relaxed on his own oar and panted uncontrollably.
"You... you recognize it?"
"Yes, I recognize it." The boatman looked happy, which
was encouraging. He also looked resigned, which was not.
"Every boatman knows the legends of the Sloomaz-ayor-le-
Weentli. It could only be one thing, you know.
"At least the Massawrath will not have us. This will be a
cleaner, surer death."
"What death? What are you talking about?" Talea and the
others had shipped their own oars as their pursuer fell back.
Bribbens reached out with an arm and gestured across the
bow. Ahead of them a thick fog was becoming visible. It
boiled energetically and spread a cloud across the roof of the
great cavern.
"dothahump?" Jon-Tom turned back to me wizard. "What's
he raving about?"
"He is not raving, my boy." The stocky sorcerer had also
turned his attention away from the fading horror behind them.
"He told you once, remember? It is why the Massawrath
cannot follow and why she flails in rage at us. She cannot
cross Helldrink."
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THE HOUK Or THE GATE
Thunder deafened Jon-Tom, and he had to put his hands to
his ears. He felt the noise through the deck, through his legs
and entire body. It pierced his every cell.
Fog and roaring, mist and thunder drew nearer. What did
mat say? It's speaking to you, he told himself, announcing its
presence and declaring its substance. It was familiar to
Bribbens, who'd never seen it. Should it therefore also be
recognizable to him?
Waterfall, he thought. He knew it instantly.
Hurrying to the storage lockers, he tried to think of a
saving song. The duar was in his hands, clean and dry,
waiting to be stroked to life, waiting to sing magic. He
draped straps over his neck, felt the familiar weight on his
shoulders.
One final tune long cables of gray mucus reached out for
mem. The Massawrath had extended itself to the utmost, but
its reach still fell short. Quivering with frustration, it hunkered
down on the rocks now well behind the boat, the volcanic pits
of its eyes glaring balefully at those now beyond its grasp.
Ahead fog boiled ceilingward like wet flame.
Jon-Tom stared mesmerized at the mist and hunted through