destroyed Pelligrew, and shuddered as he turned away from it.
On the strength of that vileness and the wizard's knowledge they might truly
march to mastery over the entire Universe, if the wizard was to be believed. But
as for himself, he was personally inclined to stay as far away from it as
possible.
He loved anything which could find new ways to kill, but this had a reach that
spanned worlds....
I
Size and attire alone would have made the giant otter worthy of notice, even if
he hadn't tripped over Meriweather's feet. Sprawled whiskers down in the grass,
the creature was barely a foot shorter than the lanky youth's own six feet two.
It was by far the largest otter Jon Meriweather had ever seen. Although he was a
student of history and not zoology, he was still willing to bet that five and a
half feet was somewhat more than otters normally reached. Despite the haze still
fogging his brain, he was also fairly certain that they didn't run around in
green felt peaked hats, snakeskin vests, or maroon velveteen pants puffed at the
ankles. Very deliberately, Jon rose, regarded the stub of the joint he held
tightly in his right hand, and flicked it distastefully away. The problem of the
moment was not the existence of the utterly impossible otter, but of what his
friend Shelly had cut the weed with.
Nevertheless, Jon couldn't take his eyes off the creature as it rolled over onto
its rump. The velveteen pantaloons impressed on him a fact he'd never had much
reason to consider before: otters have very low waistlines.
This one tugged its feathered cap down firmly over cookie-shaped ears and
commenced gathering up the arrows that had spilled from the quiver slung across
his back. The task was complicated by the short sword and scabbard strapped
across his chest, which kept getting in the way whenever he bent over. An
occasional murderous stare directed toward Jon gave him the feeling that the
animal would enjoy putting one of the foot-long shafts into him.
That was no reason for concern. He swayed and relished the hallucination.
Cannabis had never generated hallucinations in him before, but there was always
a first time. What had Shelly been cutting their stash with?
Proof that it was cut with something powerful was stumbling about the grass
before him, muttering under its breath and gathering arrows.
Doubtless his overtaxed brain was suffering from the long hours of study he'd
been putting in lately, coupled with his working from nine at night until three
in the morning. The work was necessary. Finals were due in seven weeks, and then
presentation of his master's thesis. He savored the title once more:
Manifestations and prefiguring of democratic government in the Americas, as
exemplified by the noble-sun king relationships of the Inca, 1248-1350. It was a
great title, he felt, and in presenting a thesis a good title was half the
fight. No matter how brilliant the research or the writing, you were doomed
without a title.
Having placed the last arrow in its quiver, the otter was carefully sliding it
around to his back. This done, he gazed across the meadow. His sharp black eyes
took in every tree and bush. Eventually the alert gaze came around to rest on
the dreamy figure of Jon Meriweather.
Since the vision appeared to be waiting for some sort of comment, the
good-natured graduate student said, "What can I do for you, offspring of my
nighttime daydreaming?"
By way of reply the animal again directed its attention across the meadow,
searched briefly, then pointed to a far copse. Jon lazily followed the otter's
gesture.
Disappearing beneath a mossy boulder the size and shape of a demolished
Volkswagen was a bright yellow lizard slightly larger than a chicken. It darted
along on its hind legs, the long whiplike tail extended out behind for balance.
Once it stared back over its shoulder, revealing a double row of pink dots
running down its throat and chest. Then it was gone into the safety of its
burrow.
Reality began to rear its ugly head. Jon was slowly taking note of his
surroundings. His bed and room, the rows of books on concrete-block-supported
shelves, the pinups, the battered TV, had been replaced by an encircling forest
of oaks, sycamores, birch, and pine. Tuliplike flowers gleamed nearby, rising
above thick grass and clover, some of which was blue. A faint tinkling, as of
temple bells, sounded from the distant trees.
Jon held both hands to his head. Lucidity continued to flee laughingly just
ahead of his thoughts. He remembered a pain, a pulling that threatened to tear
his brain out of his skull. Then he'd been drifting, a different drift from the
usual relaxing stupor that enveloped him during an evening of hard study and
heavy smoking. His head throbbed.
"Well?" asked the otter unexpectedly, in a high-pitched but not really squeaky
voice.
"Well what?" Soon, he told himself frantically, soon I'll wake up and find
myself asleep on the bed, with the rest of the Mexia History of All the Roman
Emperors still to be finished. Not hash, he thought. Something stronger. God, my
head.
"You asked what you could do for me." The otter gestured again, a quick, rapid
movement in the general direction of the boulder at the edge of the woods. "As
your damned great foot caused me t' fall and lose the granbit, you can bloody
well go and dig it out for me."
"What for? Were you going to eat it?"
"Nay." The otter's tone was bitterly sarcastic. "I were goin' t' tie the bloody
two-legs 'round me neck and wear it as a bloody pendant, I was." His whiskers
quivered with his rage. "Try t' play the smarty-arse with me, will you? I
suppose you be thinkin' your size will protect you?"
Casually adjusting his bow across his back and chest, the animal drew his short
sword and approached Jon, who did not back away. How could he, being deep
asleep?
"I know what happens now." He shifted his feet, almost fell. "You'll kill me,
and I'll wake up. It's about time. I've got a whole damn book to finish."
"Be you daft!" The otter's head cocked nervously to one side and a furry paw
scratched a cheek. " 'Cor, I believe you are." He looked around warily. "I know
not what influences are bein' brought t' bear in this place, but it's cost me a
granbit. I'm for leavin'. Will you not at least apologize?"
"You mean for tripping you?" Jon considered. "I didn't do a damn thing. I'm
asleep, remember?"
"You're a damn sight worse than asleep, man. The granbit choke you and make you
throw up your bowels, if you be lucky enough t' catch it. I'm finished with it,
if it means encounterin' the likes o' you. And if you follow me, I'll slit you
from mouth to arse and hasten the process. Keep your damned apology then, and
take this parting gift in return. "
So saying, he jabbed the dream sword at Jon. It sliced his shirt and knicked his
left side just above the belt holding up his jeans. A blinding pain exploded in
his side, dampened only slightly by the lingering effects of the evening's
smoking. His mouth opened to form a small "O" of surprise. Both hands went to
his ribs.
The otter withdrew his sword, the tip now stained red, and slipped it back in
its scabbard after cleaning it with tall grass. He turned and started away,
muttering obscenities. Jon watched it waddle off across the grass, heading
toward the trees.
The pain in his side intensified. Red stained his blue T-shirt. A warm wetness
trickled cloyingly down inside his underwear and started down the left leg of
his jeans. Superficial wounds bleed way out of proportion to their seriousness,