So what emerged from his throat was not a passionate plea for restoration so much as it was a primal concussion, a sound so raw and powerful that Mudge and Clothahump, who happened to be standing in the line of lyrical fire, were blown off their feet. The wizard retreated into his shell. Dormas was knocked to her knees. Sorbl instinctively took to the air, only to find himself fighting for balance in the grasp of the small hurricane Jon-Tom was producing. It blew him up over the trees and out of sight down the far side of the hill.
None of this made any impression on Jon-Tom. As far as he was concerned, he was singing normally, generating the same volume as usual, because that was how his howler voice sounded to his howler ears. And as always, when concentrating on his spellsinging with particular intensity, he sang with his eyes closed. Mudge tried to let him know what was going on by shouting at him, but the otter couldn’t make himself heard over the storm.
Dormas turned her back on the raging music while Colin and Mudge dug their claws into the ground and hung on for dear life. Sorbl sensibly stayed out of sight behind the hill while Clothahump remained bottle-up like a barrel. At least two landslides roared down the slope ahead of them, and one especially heartfelt refrain flattened a stand of trees for four hundred yards in a straight line in front of Jon-Tom’s lips.
Finally there was nothing more to sing, no more musical pleading to do. Jon-Tom’s throat was sore from the effort he’d put into his performance. Wiping dirt and leaves from their faces and clothes, Colin and Mudge slowly got to their feet. Sorbl peeped hesitantly through the trees while Clothahump stuck his head out of his shell.
Jon-Tom was himself again, and so were they. He looked a bit bewildered as he peered past his friends. “When did the wind come up?”
“When you opened your mouth, lad.” Mudge clapped him on the shoulder, having to stand on tiptoes to do so. “The particular kind o’ ape you were for a while there ‘ad a voice that would’ve put a small volcano to shame. I should o’ thought o’ wot that might do when matched with your spellsingin’ ability. When I did, it were too late. All the rest o’ us could do was ‘ang on an’ ‘ope you wouldn’t sing us ‘alfway back to Ospenspri. I think ‘tis a mite safer ‘avin’ you just as you are, defurred an’ ‘uman ‘an all.”
Clothahump was trying to shake the dust out of his shell. “There can be such a thing as too much useful magic.” He gazed past his companions, toward the pass that was their immediate destination. “One thing more we can be certain of. There can no longer be any doubt that our quarry is aware we are coming. All of the north woods must have heard that noise.” The dust from the landslides was still settling on the flanks of the pass up ahead.
Jon-Tom was enjoying being himself once again. He looked down at his tanned bare arms and naked fingers, at the short, unfunctional nails. Turning them over, he inspected the pale, furless palms that had been callused by the time he’d spent in this world. Yes, he was glad to be human again.
And yet he couldn’t help but wonder at the musical worlds he might have conquered had he been able to change back while still retaining that incredible simian voice. He could have outsung an amplified choir. Then again, a voice that stimulated landslides instead of an audience might not be such a good idea. With such a voice, the old show business adage about bringing the house down might acquire a new and lethal meaning.
XI
Colin had to force himself to slow down. Excitement kept pushing him out ahead of the others. It was just that after more than a year of wandering, he was now close to his goal.
The character of the forest was changing, for which he was grateful. He was sick of evergreens and longed for the sweet, deciduous woods of home. The trees looming up just ahead were almost familiar. Instead of being thick and deeply scarred, their bark was thin and pale gray in color. Long strips of it peeled off the trunk and collected around the base of the tree. They had leaves, too, instead of the ubiquitous needles. Long, thin leaves shaded a pale green. The grove ahead even smelled different.
Then his eyes grew very wide. It couldn’t be. It was impossible for such trees to live this far north. Yet there they stood, straight and beckoning. Their delicious, distinctive aroma could not be faked.
Aware that he’d moved out in front again, he shrugged off his knapsack and let it tumble indifferently to the ground. His companions would catch up to him soon enough, he knew. He added his saber and scabbard to the pile. Then he rushed forward as fast as his bandy legs would carry him.
Soon he was standing next to the nearest of the trees, caressing the trunk, the long strips of peeled bark splintering beneath his feet. Using his claws, he shimmied rapidly up the trunk, then walked out onto the lowest branch capable of supporting his weight. His hand was shaking as he pulled free a handful of the distinctive, narrow leaves and shoved them raw into his mouth.
As he chewed, a subtle sensation of heavenly peace and well-being began to spread through his body. His eyes shut halfway as he devoured the superlative mouthful, but he could still see the ranks of trees climbing the southern hillside, ranging far up toward the peaks themselves.
For a koala a single grove of such tall wonders was all anyone could hope to own in a lifetime. Here was an entire forest growing wild on unclaimed land. Paradise, and a fortune for the claiming. He plucked another handful, being more selective this time, extracting the dead or blighted leaves before stuifing the rest into his mouth. Crossing his legs, he sat down on the branch, put his hands behind his head, and leaned back against the trunk as he chewed while staring up at the blue, blue sky.
His dried-and-cubed eucalyptus had run out months ago. Since then he’d been forced to eat whatever greenery he’d been able to scrounge from the woods. His stomach had been constantly upset, and eating became a chore instead of a pleasure. Beans, nuts, and pine needles were little better than garbage.
And now he sat on a branch of the True Tree, nibbling its bounty and reminiscing. And planning. For all he had to do was package this produce and ship it back home. Within a year he’d be independently wealthy. A third handful of leaves followed close on the stems of the first two. For the first time in months he was able to relax.
The sweeping panorama of endless, rolling meadow struck Dormas like a solid blow as they turned a bend in the trail. There had been no warning. They had been marching through tall pine forest, tramping around bushes, and shoving aside low-hanging branches, only to emerge unexpectedly onto the open grassland.
No normal meadow this. You could tell that right away. There were no trees enclosing it, none at all, and in consequence it stretched endlessly in all directions, conceding not even the horizon to the lowering sky. More incredible still, it was composed not of sedge and other grasses but of multiple varieties of clover. There was red clover and blue-green, dandelion clover and seven-sided shaboum, which has a nutty taste when chewed slowly. The air was thick with green sweetness.
Most unbelievably of all, the consistency and height of the clover hinted that this was that rarest of all grasslands, a virgin meadow. No teeth had cropped at that rain-cleansed greenness. It was such a meadow as browsers and grazers only dream of.
She broke into a gallop, not slowing even when she plunged into the fragile growth itself. It parted around her like a green sea around the prow of a ship until she slowed, panting, and finally bent to use her teeth on the rich reward. The first taste was indescribably pure.