"I don't think of myself as animal," Jon-Tom commented, momentarily forgetting
the bees and wondering at what would inspire such loathing and obvious fear in
so confident a creature as Mudge.
"You're not much of a human, either." Mudge let out a high-pitched whistle of
amusement. "But I forget myself. You're a stranger 'ere, plucked unwillingly
from some poor benighted land o' magic. Unwillingly snookered you've been, an' I
ought by right not t' make sport o' you." Suddenly his face contorted and he
missed a step. He eyed his taller companion uncertainly.
"You 'ave the right look 'bout you, and you feel right, but with magic one can
never be sure. You do 'ave warm blood, don't you, mate?"
Jon-Tom winced, listed to his left. A powerful arm steadied him. "Thanks," he
told the otter. "You should know. You spilled enough of it."
"Aye, it did seem warm enough, though my thoughts were on other matters at the
time." He shrugged. "You've proved yourself harmless enough, anyway. Clothahump
will know what he's called you for."
What could this wizard want with me, Jon-Tom wondered? Why is this being done to
me? Why not Shelly, or Professor Stanhope, or anyone else? Why me? He noticed
that they'd stopped.
"We're there?" He looked around, expecting maybe a quaint thatched cottage.
There was no cottage in sight, no house of any kind. Then his eyes touched on
the dull-paned windows in the flanks of the massive old oak, the wisp of smoke
rising lazily from the chimney that split the thick subtrunks high up, and the
modest door scrunched in between a pair of huge, gnarly roots.
They started for the doorway, and Jon-Tom's attention was drawn upward.
"Now what?" wondered Mudge, aware that his entranced companion was no longer
listening attentively to his description of Clothahump's growing catalog of
peculiarities.
"It's a bird. A real one, this time."
Mudge glanced indifferently skyward. "O' course it's a bird. What, now, did you
expect?"
"One of those hybrid lizard things like those we passed in the forest. This
looks like a true bird."
"You're bloody right it is, and better be glad this one can't 'ear you talkin'
like that."
It was a robin, for all that it had a wingspan of nearly a yard. It wore a vest
of kelly green satin, a cap not unlike Mudge's, and a red and puce kilt. A sack
was slung and strapped across its chest. It also sported a translucent eyeshade
lettered in unknown script.
Three stories above ground a doweled landing post projected from the massive
tree. Braking neatly, the robin touched down on this. With surprisingly agile
wing tips it reached into the chest sack, fumbled around, and withdrew several
small cylinders. They might have been scrolls.
These the bird shoved into a dark recess, a notch or small window showing in the
side of the tree. It warbled twice, piercingly, sounding very much like the
robins who frequented the acacia tree outside Kinsey Hall back on campus.
Leaning toward the notch, it cupped a wing tip to its beak and was heard to
shout distinctly, "Hey, stupid! Get off your fat ass and pick up your mail!
You've got three days' worth moldering up here, and if I come by tomorrow and
it's still piled up I'll use it for nest lining!" There followed a string of
obscenities much out of keeping with the bird's coloring and otherwise gentle
demeanor. It turned from the notch with a gruff chirp, grumbling under its
breath.
"Horace!" shouted the otter. The bird looked downward and dropped off the perch
to circle above them.
"Mudge? Whatcha doin'?" The voice reminded Jon of one he'd heard frequently
during a journey to another exotic section of the real world, a realm known as
Brooklyn. "Ain't seen ya around town much lately."
"Been out 'untin', I 'ave."
"Where'd ya pick up the funny-looking bozo?"
"Long story, mate. Did I 'ear you right when you said the old geezer hain't been
'ome in three days?"
"Oh, he's inside, all right," replied the bird. "Mixing and sorcering as usual.
I can tell because there's a different stink blowing out that mail drop every
time I fly in. You wouldn't happen to have a worm on ya, would ya?"
"Sorry, mate. Crayfish and oysters run more t' my taste."
"Yeah, I know. No harm in asking." He cocked a hopeful eye at Jon-Tom. "How
'bout you, buddy?"
"Afraid not." Anxious to please, he fumbled in his jeans' pockets. "How about a
Juicyfruit?"
"Thanks, but I've had all the berries I can stand for now. I'm up to my ass
feathers in berries." He stared at Jon a moment longer, then bid them a civil
good-bye.
"Always did envy them birds." Mudge looked envious. "Wings are so much faster
than feet."
"I think I'd rather have real feet and hands."
Mudge grunted. "That's a point t' reckon with, guv'nor." They moved to the
doorway. " 'Ere goes now. Mind," he whispered, "you be on your best behavior,
Jon-Tom. Old Clothahump's got the reputation o' bein' fair-tempered for a
wizard, but they're a cranky group. Just as soon turn you into a dung beetle as
look at you. It ain't good policy t' provoke one, 'specially one as powerful and
senile as Clothy-nose 'ere."
The otter knocked on the door, nervously repeated it when no reply was
forthcoming. Jon-Tom noted the animal's tenseness, decided that for all his
joking and name-calling he was deeply fearful of wizards or anything having to
do with them. He twitched and shifted his feet constantly while they waited. It
occurred to Jon-Tom that at no time had he actually seen the otter standing
motionless. Trying to ignore the pain pounding in his side he struggled to stand
straight and presentable.
In a moment the door would creak inward and he would be standing face to face
with what was, at least to Mudge's mind, a genuine magic-making wizard. It was
easy enough to visualize him: six and a half feet tall, he would be garbed in
flowing purple robes enscribed with mystic symbols. A bestarred pointy. hat
would crown the majestic head. His face would be wrinkled and stern-what wasn't
hidden beneath a flowing white beard-and he would very likely be wearing thick
glasses.
The door opened inward. It creaked portentously. "Good morning," he began,
"we..."
The rest of the carefully rehearsed greeting shattered in his throat as he
stumbled backward in panic, tripped, and fell. Something tore in his side and he
sensed dampness there. He wondered how much longer he could tolerate the wound
without having it properly treated, and if he might die in this falsely cheerful
place, as far from home as anyone could be. The monstrosity that had filled the
open doorway drifted toward him as he tried to crawl, to scramble away....
II
Mudge stared disgustedly down at his charge, sounded both angry and embarrassed.
"Now wot the bloody 'ell's the matter with you? It's only Pog."
"P-p-pog?" Jon-Tom was unable to move his eyes from the hovering horror.
"Clothahump's famulus, you colossal twit! He..."
"Never mind," rumbled the gigantic black bat. "I don't mind." His wing tips
scraped the jambs as he fluttered back into the portal. Oversized pink ears and
four sharp fangs caught the light. His voice was incredibly rough, echoing from
a deep gravel mine. "I know I'm not pretty. But I never knocked anyone down
because of it." He flew out now to hover nearer Jon.
"You're not very handsome yourself, man."
"Go easy on 'im, Pog." Mudge tried to sound conciliatory. " 'E's been magicked
from 'is world into ours, and 'e's wounded besides." The otter diplomatically