to, if Clothahump's perception of the danger threatening them was accurate.
Rationalization or not, that was a comforting thought to cling to.
I didn't ask to be here, he told himself firmly, and if I have a chance to get
home, damned if I'm not going to take it...
XI
The rest of the preparations took all afternoon. They were not ready until
evening.
In the middle of the Tree's central chamber a circle had been painted on the
wood-chip floor. It was filled with cryptographic symbols that might have been
calculus and might have been nonsense. Talea, Pog, and Mudge had been directed
to stay out of the way, an admonition they needed no urging to obey.
Clothahump stood on the opposite side of the circle from Jon-Tom, who tapped
nervously at the wood of the duar.
"What do I do when we begin?"
"You're the spellsinger. Sing."
"Sing about what?"
"About what we're going to try and do. I wish I could help you, my boy, but I
have other things to worry about. I never did have much of a voice."
"Look," said Jon-Tom worriedly, "the riding snake was an accident. I don't know
how I did that. Maybe we should stop and..."
"Not now, boy," the wizard told him curtly. "Do the best you can. Sing naturally
and the magic will follow. That's the way it is with spellsingers. You do that
and I will do my part."
He slipped into a semitrance with startling speed and began to recite formulae
and trace symbols in the air. There was a great deal of mumbling about time
vortices, dimensional nexi, and controlled catastrophe theory.
In contrast Jon-Tom started to pluck hesitantly at the strings of the duar. They
glowed blue as he furiously searched for an appropriate tune. His thoughts were
confused enough without his having to recall the specifics of a song.
Eventually though he settled on one (he had to select something) and began. It
was "California Dreamin'."
He started to feel the rhythm of the song, the deceptive power of the ballad,
and his voice rose higher, the chords becoming richer as he put all his homesick
feelings and desires into it: "I'd be safe and warm, if I was in L.A." It grew
dark in the Tree. Brilliant yellow clouds formed in the eenter of the circle.
They were echoed by a thick emerald fog that coalesced just above the floor.
Yellow drops of swirling energy started to spill from the clouds, while green
rain rose skyward from the lazy fog. Where they met they formed a
whirlpool-globe that began to swell and spin.
Jon-Tom's voice echoed around the chamber, his fingers flying over the strings.
The powerful electronic mimicry thundered off the walls, blending with
Clothahump's sonorous and steady chant. A deep, low ringing like the distant
sound of a huge bell being played two speeds too slowly on a bad tape recorder
began to fill the room. A tingling came over Jon-Tom's entire body, a glittering
heat that radiated through him.
He continued to play, though it felt now as though his fingers were passing
through the strings instead of striking them. Glass bottles shattered on the
workbench and books tumbled from their shelves as the very heart of the Tree
quivered with the sound. For all anyone inside knew, the whole forest was
shaking.
The climax of the song was nearing, the end of the ballad, and he was still
within the Tree. He tried to convey his helplessness to Clothahump, his
uncertainty about what to do next. Perhaps the wizard understood his anxious
stare. Perhaps it was just that their timing was naturally good.
A violent yellow-green explosion obliterated clouds and fog and whirlpool-globe.
A great invisible fist struck Jon-Tom hard in the sternum and sent him stumbling
backward. He bounced off the far wall, staggered a couple of steps, and fell to
his right. Scrolls, fragments of skull, some stuffed heads mounted on the wall,
wood shavings and chips, powders and bits of cloth were raining around him.
Within the circle a whitish haze was beginning to dissipate.
He paid it little attention because he could see it, and he should not have been
able to. Even through the shock of the explosion and his subsequent fall he knew
he oughtn't to be able to see haze or Tree. He should be back home, preferably
in his own room, or in class, or even flat in the middle of Wilshire traffic.
Instead he lay on his butt within the same Tree.
"It didn't work," he murmured aloud. "I didn't go back." He felt like the hero
of a war movie who'd set off the magazine of his own ship and gone down with his
captors.
The last of the haze was fading from the circle. He caught his breath, aware of
something besides his own self-pity now.
A tall young woman just a hair short of six feet was sitting spraddle-legged in
the center of the circle. Her arms were straight behind her, keeping her in a
sitting position as she gazed around with an altogether appropriate air of
bewilderment. Long black hair was tied in a single ponytail.
She was clad in an absurdly brief skirt with matching pantyshorts beneath,
sneakers and high socks, and a long sweater with four large blue letters sewn on
its front. Her face was a stunning cross between that of a Tijuana professional
and a Tintoretto madonna. Jet-black eyes, black as Mudge's, and coffee skin.
Shakily she got to her feet, dusted herself off, and looked around.
With Pog's assistance Clothahump was rolling off his back. Once on all fours he
was able to stand up. He started hunting around for his glasses, which had been
knocked off by the concussion. A curved dent in the Tree wall behind him showed
where he'd struck.
"What happened?" Jon-Tom thought to ask, his eyes still mesmerized by the woman.
"What went wrong?"
"You, obviously, did not go back," said Clothahump prosaically, "but someone
else was drawn to us." He stared at the new arrival, asked solicitously, "Are
you by any chance, my dear, an eng'neer? Or wizard, or sorceress, or witch, as
they would be known hereabouts?"
"Sangre de Christo," husked the girl, taking a cautious step away from the
turtle. Then she stopped. Her confusion and momentary fear were replaced by an
expression of outrage.
"What is this place, huh? Comprende tortuga? Do you understand?" She turned
slowly. "Where the hell am I?"
Her eyes narrowed as they located Jon-Tom. "You... don't I know you from
someplace?"
"Am I correct then in assuming you are not an eng'neer?" asked Clothahump
despondently.
She looked back over a shoulder at him. "Engineer, me? Infierno, no! I'm a
theater-arts student at the University of California in Los Angeles. I was on my
way to cheerleading squad practice when... when I suddenly find myself in a
nightmare. Only... you are not very frightening, tortuga.
"So if this is no nightmare... what is it?" She put a hand to her forehead,
staggered a little. "Madre de dios, have I got a headache."
Clothahump looked across the demolished circle. Jon-Tom was still staring
open-mouthed at the girl, his own failure now forgotten. "You know this young
lady, spellsinger?"
"I'm afraid I do, sir. Her name is Flores Quintera."
At the mention of her name the girl spun back to face him. "I thought I
recognized you." She frowned. "But I still can't place you."
"My name is Jon Meriweather." When she didn't react to that, he added, "We
attend the same school."
"I still can't place you. Have we had a class together, or something?"
"I don't think so," he told her. "I'd remember if we had. I have seen--"
"Wait a minuto... now I know!" She pointed an accusatory finger at him. "I've
seen you working around campus. Sweeping the halls, working the grounds at