"Magicked?"
"Aye! Oh, don't look like that, guv'nor. I don't expect it's fatal. Old
Clothahump's a decent docent and wily enough wizard when he's sober and sane,
but the troublemaker o' the ages when he lapses into senility, as 'e's wont t'
do these days. Sometimes it's 'ard to tell when 'e's rightside in. Not that it
be 'is fault for turnin' old and dotty, 'appens t' us all eventually, I expect.
"I stay away from 'is place, I do. As do any folk with brains enough. Never know
what kind o' crazed incantation you might get sucked up in."
"He's a wizard, then," Jon-Tom mumbled. Trees, grass, the otter before him
assumed the clarity of a fire alarm. "It's all real, then."
"I told you so. There be nothin' wrong with your ears, lad. No need t' repeat
what I've already said. You sound dumb enough as it is."
"Dumb? Now look," Jon-Tom said with some heat, "I am confused. I am worried.
I'll confess to being terrified out of my wits." One hand dropped reflexively to
his injured side. "But I'm not dumb."
The otter sniffed disdainfully.
"Do you know who was president of Paraguay from 1936 to 1941?"
"No." Mudge's nose wiggled. "Do you know 'ow many pins can dance on the 'ead of
an angel?"
"No, and"--Jon-Tom hesitated; his gaze narrowed--"it's 'how many angels can
dance on the head of a pin.' "
Mudge let out a disgusted whistle. "Think we're smart, do we. I can't do fire,
but I'm not even an apprentice and I can pindance."
His paw drew five small, silvery pins from a vest pocket. Each was about a
quarter of an inch long. The otter mumbled something indistinct and made a pass
or two over the metal splinters. The pins rose and commenced a very respectable
cakewalk in his open palm.
"Allemande left," the otter commanded. The pins complied, the odd one out having
some trouble working itself into the pattern of the dance.
"Never can get that fifth pin right. If only we 'ad the 'ead o' an angel."
"That's very interesting," Jon-Tom observed quietly. Then he fainted....
"You keep that up, guv, and the back o' your nog's goin' to be as rough as the
hills of Kilkapny Claw. Not t'mention what it's doin' t' your fur."
"My fur?" Jon-Tom rolled to his knees, took several deep breaths before rising.
"Oh." Self-consciously he smoothed back his shoulder-length locks, leaned
against the helpful otter.
"Little enough as you 'umans got, I'd think you'd take better care o' it." Mudge
let loose of the man's arm. "Furless, naked skin... I'd rather 'ave a pox."
"I have to get back," Jon-Tom murmured tiredly. "I can't stay here any longer.
I've got a job, and classes, and a date Friday night, and I've got to..."
"Your otherworldly concerns are of no matter to me." Mudge gestured at the
sticky bandage below the man's ribs. "I didn't spear you bad. You ought t' be
able to run if you 'ave t'. If it's 'ome you want, we'd best go call on
Clothahump. I'll leave you t' 'im. I've work of me own t' do. Can you walk?"
"I can walk to meet this... wizard. You called him Clothahump?"
"Aye, that's it, lad. The fornicating troublemakin' blighter, muckin' about with
forces 'e can't no longer control. No doubt in my mind t' it, mate. Your bein'
'ere is 'is doin'. 'E be bound to send you back to where you belong before you
get 'urt."
"I can take care of myself." Jon-Tom had traveled extensively for his age. He
prided himself on his ability to adapt to exotic locales. Objectively
considered, this land he now found himself in was no more alien-appearing than
Amazonian Peru, and considerably less so than Manhattan. "Let's go and find this
wizard."
"That's the spirit, guv'nor!" Privately Mudge still thought the tall youth a
whining, runny-nosed baby. "We'll 'ave this 'ere situation put right in no time,
wot?"
Oak and pine dominated the forest, rising above the sycamore and birch. In
addition, Jon-Tom thought he recognized an occasional spruce. All coexisted in a
botanistic nightmare, though Jon-Tom wasn't knowledgeable enough to realize the
incongruity of the landscape.
Epiphytic bushes abounded, as did gigantic mushrooms and other fungi. Scattered
clumps of brown and green vines dripped black berries, or scarlet, or peridot
green. There were saplings that looked like elms, save for their iridescent blue
bark.
The glass butterflies were everywhere. Their wings sent isolated shafts of
rainbow light through the branches. Yet everything seemed to belong, seemed
natural, even to the bells formed by the leaves of some unknown tree, which rang
in the wind and gave substance to the name of this forest.
The cool woods, with its invigorating tang of mint ever present, had become
almost familiar when he finally had his first close view of a "bird." It lit on
a low-hanging vine nearby and eyed the marchers curiously.
Bird resemblance ended with the feathers. A short snout revealed tiny sharp
teeth and a long, forked tongue. The wings sprouted from a scaly yellow body.
Having loosened its clawed feet from the vine, the feathered reptile (or scaly
bird?) circled once or twice above their heads. It uttered a charming trill that
reminded the astonished Jon-Tom of a mockingbird. Yet it bore closer resemblance
to the creature he'd seen scamper beneath the boulder in the meadow than to any
bird, and was sooner cousin to a viper than a finch.
A small rock whizzed through the air. With an outraged squawk the feathered
apparition wheeled and vanished into the sheltering trees.
"Why'd you do that, Mudge?"
"It were circlin' above us, sor." The otter shook his head sadly. "Not entirely
bright you are. Or don't the flyers o' your own world ever vent their excrement
upon unwary travelers? Or is it that you 'ave magicked reasons o' your own for
wishin' t' be shat upon?"
"No." He tried to regain some of the otter's respect. "I've had to dodge birds
several times."
The confession produced a reaction different from what he'd hoped for.
"BIRDS?" The otter's expression was full of disbelief, the thin whiskers
twitching nervously. "No self-respectin' bird would dare do an insult like that.
Why, 'ed be up afore council in less time than it takes t' gut a snake. D'you
think we're uncivilized monsters 'ere, like the Plated Folk?"
"Sorry." Jon-Tom sounded contrite, though still puzzled.
"Mind you watch your language 'ere, lad, or you'll find someone who'll prick you
a mite more seriously than did I."
They continued through the trees. Though low and bandy-legged like all his kind,
the otter made up for his slight stride with inexhaustible energy. Jon-Tom had
to break into an occasional jog to keep pace with him.
Seeds within belltree leaves generated fresh music with every varying breeze,
now sounding like Christmas chimes, now like a dozen angry tambourines. A pair
of honeybees buzzed by them. They seemed so achingly normal, so homey in this
mad world that Jon-Tom felt a powerful desire to follow them all the way to
their hive, if only to assure himself it was not equipped with miniature windows
and doors.
Mudge assured him it was not. "But there be them who are related to such who be
anything but normal, lad." He pointed warningly eastward. "Many leagues that
way, past grand Polastrindu and the source o' the River Tailaroam, far beyond
the Swordsward, on the other side o' great Zaryt's Teeth, lies a land no
warmblood has visited and returned to tell o' it. A land not to look after, a
country in'abited by stinks and suppurations and malodorous creatures who are o'
a vileness that shames the good earth. A land where those who are not animal as
us rule. A place called Cugluch."