“Is that all? Hell, you boys don’t need a hinny to haul this stuif for you. A couple of pack rats would’ve done as well.”
Despite her admonition against riding, she did allow Sorbl to rest from time to time atop the uppermost sack. Resting, she explained, was not riding. Jon-Tom got a kick out of watching the owl bob back and forth atop the mountain of supplies, clinging to a strap with his clawed feet and looking like nothing else but a feathered hood ornament. He would ride that way for a moment or two before rising toward the clouds to resume his aerial patrol of the terrain below.
Donnas’ s endurance had a salutary effect on Clothahump’s companions as well. They were spared the usual unending litany of complaints about the wizard’s sore feet, his rheumatism, and the weight of his shell. Instead, he held his peace, ground his beak in silence, and said nothing as they traversed the difficult places. Jon-Tom was glad of his long legs. Mudge possessed neither long legs, wizardry determination, wings, or an extra pair of walking limbs. He compensated for these deficiencies with typically unflagging otterish energy.
North of Ospenspri the woods were mostly uninhabited. As they climbed higher they began to lose the Belltrees themselves, along with the more familiar oaks and sycamores. Evergreens took their place. Jon-Tom thought he recognized sugar and pinon pine as well as blue spruce. There were also more exotic varieties, including one stalwart growth whose three-inch-long needles were as sharp as a porcupine’s quills. Mudge identified the most dangerous growths and led his companions carefully around them. They couldn’t harm the armored Clothahump, but a casual misstep could turn any of the rest of the marchers into green pincushions.
With Sorbl scouting overhead and Clothahump relentless in his examination of the forest floor, Jon-Tom found he was able to relax and enjoy the hike. The evergreens, the bare rock, the pinecones that littered the ground reminded him of Oregon or Montana.
As they climbed out of the lowland forest onto the Plateau, he amused himself by kicking twigs and pinecones out of their path. He was about to boot aside a particularly large cone when he found himself knocked to the ground. He rolled over, furious and confused.
“What’s the big idea, Mudge?” The otter had tackled him from behind. Carefully he checked his precious duar, let out a sigh of relief when he’d concluded his anxious inspection. “You could have busted this!”
“Better it than you, mate.” The otter nudged the feather that adorned his cap back over his head. It had fallen forward over one eye when he’d jumped at Jon-Tom’s legs. Clothahump, Sorbl, and Dormas stood nearby, watching.
Mudge indicated the huge pinecone, careful not to touch it. “Wot about you, Your Wizardship? You recognize this charmin’ little gift o’ the forest primeval?”
Clothahump squinted through his glasses at the seemingly innocent cone that lay in the middle of the path. “Your eyes are as sharp as your tongue, river rat.” He lifted his gaze to Jon-Tom. “You should be thanking your friend instead of shouting at him.”
“For what?” Jon-Tom was still irritated, still saw no reason for the abruptness of the otter’s action. After all, it was only an ordinary—
He halted in mid-thought. He’d learned little enough of this world in the time he’d been marooned in it, but one thing he had learned early on was that there was little in it that could be defined as ordinary.
“Everybody loves pine nuts. Some o’ me near relations will do just about anything for a handful.” Mudge stood surveying the cone. “I’ve been nibblin’ on ‘em meself as the occasion permitted. ‘Tis a fine and ‘andy snack for travelers in a ‘urry like ourselves.”
Jon-Tom was brushing dirt from the sleeves of his indigo shirt. “What’s so special about this one?”
“The trees ‘ave their ways o’ makin’ sure that at least some of the seeds they scatter aren’t disturbed by ‘ungry passersby, mate, be they intelligent like meself or dumb like the forest browsers and yourself.” Leaning forward, he slowly inspected the cone from every conceivable angle before gingerly picking it up in both hands. Turning, he showed it to the others, handling it as delicately as a hollow egg.
Jon-Tom leaned close. “Looks like a normal pinecone to me.”
“O’ course it does, lad. ‘Tis supposed to. But look ‘ere.” He pointed with a finger, not touching the cone. “See there? The top ring o’ seed covers is missin’, wot? It didn’t get knocked off in the fall, and it weren’t eaten by some traveler. The tree pulled it out when it dropped the cone.”
“I still don’t understand. So what?”
“So this is wot, mate. Wot ‘appens if you picks it up and tries to make a meal o’ its seeds or kicks it playful like.” He turned, drew back his arm, and threw the cone as far as he could over a pile of boulders.
There was a second of silence followed by a substantial explosion. Jon-Tom flinched. Orange flame seared the sky, shadowed by black smoke. As the smoke began to dissipate Mudge turned to face him, paws on hips.
“Just a discouragin’ shock to the would-be seed-eater. It would’ve blown your bloomin’ leg off, mate.”
“I—I didn’t know, Mudge.” His throat was dry as he stared at the fading smoke. “It’s a damn good thing the pinecones on my world aren’t like that.”
Mudge resumed the march, falling in step behind Clothahump and Dormas. “Oh, I expect there’re some like that everywhere, lad.”
“No, you’re wrong about that. I’ve never heard of anyone being killed by an exploding pinecone.”
The otter cocked a challenging eye at him. “Don’t you ‘ave curious folk wot goes a-travelin’ through woods like these and never comes out again?”
“Of course we do. But they perish from hunger or thirst or snakebite or something like that. Not from stepping on exploding pinecones.”
“ ‘Ow do you know, mate, if you never find ‘em?”
“We find most of them.”
The otter was persistent. “But wot about those who just up an’ disappear?”
“Well, they’re presumed to have fallen off a mountainside or died in a cave or something.”
“Ha! ‘Ow does you find the pieces o’ someone who’s been blown to bits in a heavily wooded area? The scavengers would clean up wot didn’t get vaporized.”
Jon-Tom lifted his eyes to stare resolutely straight ahead. “This is a ridiculous conversation, and I refuse to continue with it.”
“Are there lots o’ pine trees in your world, mate? Trees like this?”
“Mudge”—Jon-Tom sighed—”there are millions of them, and many of them have been cut down en masse for lumber and such. I never heard of anyone being blown up while working as a logger.”
“D’you think the trees are bleedin’ stupid? They know they can’t stop a whole lot o’ folks workin’ in unison. So they tries to pick ‘em off one at a time when nobody else is around to see.”
“I’m not listening to this anymore!” So saying, he stepped off to one side and began picking the occasional ripe redberry, popping it angrily into his mouth. The tart juice did nothing to sweeten his disposition. A quick glance showed Clothahump smiling at him, and that made him even angrier.
Exploding pinecones! Inimical pine trees! The whole business was absurd. Clothahump and Mudge were having fun at his expense. There were no such mutated monstrosities on his world. Of course people disappeared in the forest, in places like Oregon and Montana. People who were stupid enough to go tramping through the wilderness all by their lonesome. They deserved to stumble over a cliff, or into an unswimmable river, or . . .