“I am Sorenset,” he informed them, “a senior member of the ruling council of Ospenspri.” Another bow toward Clothahump. “We are laid low by the weight of your genius, sir, and raised up again through your timely assistance. I am honored to reflect the glory of the greatest of wizards.”
“The people of Ospenspri have always been famed for the accuracy of their observations,” Clothahump said blithely. “I only did what any traveler of my stature would have done.”
“But which none could do until now.” Sorenset closed his eyes and stared at the sun, luxuriating in its feel against his face. “The curse has been lifted. Ospenspri has suffered before, but such calamities have wrought their damage and then moved on. We began to fear that the black cloud was destined to stay with us forever.”
“It could return, in the same guise or another.”
Sorenset dropped his face and stared at the wizard. “Do not say such things. Have you not banished the cloud?”
“Yes, but not its cause. Until we can do that, no morning will be the same as the one that has preceded it, and none of us can go to sleep with any assurance that we will wake up recognizing what we are. It is to remedy this matter that the three of us have undertaken this journey from our home in the South.”
Sorenset nodded somberly. “Anything that you require that can be found in Ospenspri will be provided. We will help in any way that we can. You have restored our bodies, our city, and our souls.”
He turned toward the beautiful homes and apartments, no longer poor structures of mud and wattle, which fronted on the central square. Laughter, shouts of relief, and other sounds of merriment poured from open windows and doors. The cries might have been deafening except that many of Ospenspri’s restored citizens had ingested too much of the flavorful downpour and now lay savoring their restoration in stuporous slumber on porches and doorsteps, streets and benches.
Mudge leapt off the fountain enclosure and wrapped his arms around Jon-Tom, hooting and barking with delight. Jon-Tom staggered under the weight and collapsed to the ground with the otter on top of him. He wasn’t angry. He could only grin. The otter’s high spirits were infectious. Besides, he’d done more than taste of the alcoholic precipitation himself. He was feeling pleasantly giddy.
As for the wizard’s famulus, Sorbl was flying in tighter and tighter circles around the spire of the fountain, until his wings and coordination finally gave out. Mudge and Jon-Tom had to drag him from the pool.
As befitted their station, Sorenset and Clothahump observed this display of youthful celebration with a tolerant eye. “It appears that it is left to us to proceed with practical matters.”
“I am not displeased,” Clothahump told the fox. “We will not be interrupted with foolish questions. I will lay out our needs for you. They are modest in scope. We will also require proper lodging for the night, assuming any innkeeper has recovered sufficiently to serve us.”
“I know just the place,” Sorenset replied. “The finest establishment in the city. When the owners learn who their guests will be, they will be even more effusive in their praise than I. This I will attend to myself, in the name of the council and the people of a grateful Ospenspri.”
The music that the orchestra was playing for the enjoyment of the diners was soft and light, all flutes and strings. Such sounds ordinarily would have driven a hard-rock guitarist like Jon-Tom from the building. But after all they’d been through on the long journey northward, he found he was glad of the respite from anything harsh, including sounds. He was particularly fascinated by the multireeded flute the bobcat was tootling on and the thirty-stringed lyre the well-dressed gibbon was stroking. The latter made the double strings of his duar seem simple by comparison. But then, the gibbon had arms that trailed on the ground when he walked. No human could match his reach.
On the other hand, he told himself as he regarded his duar fondly, it wasn’t an easy matter to bring forth chords from strings that tended to blur into another dimension when you were playing on them, either.
It seemed that everyone in Ospenspri wanted to thank the city’s saviors personally. Sorenset politely but firmly warded off the multitude of well-wishers, explaining that their visitors were exhausted and still had many leagues to travel.
The deluge of hosannas was mitigated more than a little by the perturbation that struck later that afternoon. It was not as damaging to the spirit as the black cloud and it lasted less than ten minutes, but it was a sobering reminder to all that the world was still a long way from returning to a state of normalcy. Everyone became a multihued butterfly, each building a cocoon of varying size and shape. There was much nervous flapping of brilliantly colored wings before the perturbation ended and the real world returned with a snap.
It certainly took the edge off Clothahump’s achievement. Sorenset no longer had to fend off citizens who wanted to kiss the wizard’s feet.
“Ungrateful wretches.” The turtle sipped his soup. “It’s not enough that for them I turn their town right side up. They want me to tip the world for them.”
“Don’t be too hard on them.” Jon-Tom was finishing his own meal, savoring the subtle spices and the tender meat that now rested comfortably in his belly. After weeks of hasty meals followed by continuous jouncing in the old jeep, the meal at the inn had reminded him that eating could be a delight as well as a necessity. “They don’t understand what’s going on. We’re probably the only ones in the world who do—along with whoever’s restraining the perambulator, of course.”
“Ignorance is no excuse for bad manners,” grumped the wizard. But Jon-Tom had managed to soothe him somewhat.
Sorenset and several other members of the city council joined them at the oval table. A pouty Clothahump allowed Jon-Tom to tell their story and explain what they intended to try. The rulers of Ospenspri listened politely.
“One thing is certain.” The flying squirrel, Talla, was president of the council and wore his medals on the flaps of skin that connected his wrists to his ribs. “The vehicle in which you arrived will not take you where you wish to go. Between here and the northern reaches you will have to climb.”
“What about riding snakes?” Jon-Tom asked.
The squirrel shook his head. “No L’borian could survive the conditions on the Plateau. It’s far too cold.”
“Then we will have to continue on foot.” Clothahump was tapping the table with the fingers of both hands. “A daunting prospect, yet one that does not concern me a tenth so much as whatever we will encounter at the end of our journey.”
“What do you suggest?” Jon-Tom asked again.
Sorenset considered. “Ospenspri is home to many independent transporters. But to go north of the Plateau at this tune of year, I don’t know. All we can do is inquire if any quadruped is willing to undertake such a journey. You will have all the supplies you need, but we cannot compel a citizen to risk a life against his will.”
“Of course not,” said Clothahump.
“I will go and make inquiries right now.” A nervous bandicoot excused himself from the gathering and hurried toward the door.
“Even a single horse willing to carry our supplies would be a great help,” Clothahump said, “though I am not sanguine about one volunteering.”
“What, after you saved the whole city?” Jon-Tom observed.
The wizard gave him a knowing look. “My boy, when you have lived as long as I have, you come to learn that among the virtues, altruism is not the most common.”
The contemplative silence that followed this wise observation was interrupted by a loud smacking sound from the table behind the conference oval. Jon-Tom turned a disapproving eye on Mudge. Only the top of the otter’s head was visible. His face was buried in the midsection of a two-foot-long broiled fish. Jon-Tom tilted back in his chair and whispered.