he told himself. But it hurts, he thought despairingly.
I hope to God I wake up soon.
But if he was asleep... the pain was too real, far more so than trees or otter.
Blood staining the grass, he limped after his assailant.
"Wait a minute... please, wait!" The words were thick in his dry throat, and he
was ravenously hungry. Holding his wounded side with his left hand and waving
his right, he stumbled after the otter. Clover broke fragrantly under his
sandals and small flying things erupted in panic from the grass under his feet,
to conceal themselves quickly in other pockets of protective green.
Bright sunlight filled the meadow. Birds sang strange songs. Butterflies with
stained-glass wings crowned the tulips.
Having reached the outer rank of trees the otter hesitated under an umber
sycamore and half drew his sword. "I'm not afeard o' you, daemon-man. Come
closer and I'll stick you again." But even while he uttered this brave challenge
the animal was backing slowly into the woods, looking to left and right for an
avenue of escape.
"I don't want to hurt you," Jon whispered, as much from the agony in his side as
from a desire not to panic the creature. "I just want to wake up, that's all."
Tears started from his eyes. "Please let me wake up. I want to leave this dream
and get back to work. I'll never take another toke, honest to God. It hurts. "
He looked back over his shoulder, praying for the sight of his dumpy, cramped
room with its cracked ceiling and dirty windows. Instead, he saw only more
trees, tulip things, glass butterflies. A narrow brook ran where his bed should
have been.
Turning back to the otter he took a step forward, tripped over a rock, and fell,
weakened by loss of blood. Peppermint and heather smells filled his nostrils.
Please God, don't let me die in a dream....
Details drifted back to him when he reopened his eyes. It was light out. He'd
fallen asleep on his bed and slept the whole night, leaving the Mexia unread.
And with an eight o'clock class in Brazilian government to attend.
Judging from the intensity of the light, he'd barely have enough time to pull
himself together, gather up his books and notes, and make it to campus. And he'd
have words with Shelly for not warning him about the unexpected potency of the
pot he'd sold him.
And it was odd how his side hurt him.
"Got to get up," he mumbled dizzily.
" 'Ere now, guv'nor," said a voice that was not his own, not Shelly's, but was
nonetheless familiar. "You take 'er easy for a spell. That was a bad knock you
took when you fell."
Jon's eyelids rolled up like cracked plastic blinds. A bristled, furry face
framing dancing black eyes stared down at him from beneath the rim of a bright
green, peaked cap. Jon's own eyes widened. Details of dream slammed into his
thoughts. The animal face moved away.
"Now don't you go tryin' any of your daemonic tricks on me... if you 'ave any."
"I"--Jon couldn't decide whether to pay attention to the bump on his head or the
pain in his side--"I'm not a daemon."
The otter made a satisfied cluttering sound. "Ah! Never did think you were. Knew
it all along, I did. First off, a daemon wouldn't let hisself be cut as easy as
you did and second, they don't fall flat on their puss when they be in pursuit
of daemonic prey. Worst attempt at levitation ever I saw.
"Thinkin' I might 'ave misjudged you, for bein' upset over losin' me supper, I
bandaged up that little nick I gifted you with. Guess you're naught but a man,
what? No hard feelin's, mate?"
Jon looked down at himself. His shirt had been pulled up. A crude dressing of
some fibrous material was tied around his waist with a snakeskin thong. A dull
ache came from the bandaged region. He felt as though he'd been used as a
tackling dummy.
Sitting up very slowly, he again noted his surroundings. He was not in his
apartment, a tiny hovel which now seemed as desirable and unattainable as
heaven.
Dream trees continued to shade dream flowers. Grass and blue clover formed a
springy mattress beneath him. Dream birds sang in the branches overhead, only
they were not birds. They had teeth, and scales, and claws on their wings. As he
watched, a glass butterfly lit on his knee. It fanned him with sapphire wings,
fluttered away when he reached tentatively toward it.
Sinewy muscles tensed beneath his armpits as the otter got behind him and
lifted. "You're a big one... give us a 'and now, will you, mate?"
With the otter's aid, Jon soon found himself standing. He tottered a little, but
the fog was lifting from his brain.
"Where's my room? Where's the school?" He turned a circle, was met by trees on
all sides and not a hint of a building projecting above them. The tears started
again, surprising because Jon had always prided himself on his emotional
self-control. But he was badly, almost dangerously disoriented. "Where am I?
What... who are you?"
"All good questions, man." This is a funny bloke, the otter thought. Watch
yourself, now. "As to your room and school, I can't guess. As to where we are,
that be simple enough to say. These be the Bellwoods, as any fool knows. We're a
couple days' walk out o' Lynchbany Towne, and my name be Mudge. What might yours
be, sor, if you 'ave a name?"
Jon answered numbly, "Meriweather. Jonathan Thomas Meriweather."
"Well then, Jnthin Tos Miwath... Joneth Omaz Morwoth... see 'ere, man, this
simply won't do! That's not a proper name. The sayin' of it ud give one time
enough to dance twice widdershins 'round the slick thighs o' the smooth-furred
Felice, who's said t've teased more males than there be bureaucrats in
Polastrindu. I'll call you Jon-Tom, if you don't mind, and if you will insist on
havin' more than one name. But I'll not give you three. That clatters indecently
on the ears."
"Bellwoods," the lanky, disoriented youth was babbling. "Lynchbany...
Lynchbany... is that near Culver City? It's got to be in the South Bay
somewhere."
The otter put both hands on Jon-Tom's wrists, and squeezed. Hard. "Look 'ere,
lad," he said solemnly, "I know not whether you be balmy or bewitched, but you'd
best get hold of yourself. I've not the time t' solve your problems or wipe away
those baby-bottom tears you're spillin'. You're as real as you feel, as real as
I, and if you don't start lookin' up for yourself you'll be a real corpse, with
real maggots feedin' on you who won't give a snake fart for where you hailed
from. You hearin' me, lad?"
Jon-Tom stopped snuffling, suddenly seemed his proper age. Easy, he told
himself. Take this at face value and puzzle it through, whatever it is. Adhere
to the internal logic and pray to wake up even if it's in a hospital bed.
Whether this animal before you is real or dream, it's all you've got now. No
need to make even an imaginary asshole of yourself.
"That's better." The otter let loose of the man's tingling wrists. "You mumble
names I ain't never heard o'." Suddenly he slapped small paws together, gave a
delighted spring into the air. "O' course! Bugger me for a rat-headed fool for
not thinkin' of it afore! This 'as t' be Clothahump's work. The old sot's been
meddlin' with the forces of nature again." His attitude was instantly
sympathetic, whiskers quivering as he nodded knowingly at the gaping Jon-Tom.
" 'Tis all clear enough now, you poor blighter. It's no wonder you're as puzzled
and dazed as you appear, and that I couldn't fathom you a'tall." He kicked at
the dirt, boot sending flowers flying. "You've been magicked here."