The Hour of the Gate

by Alan Dean Foster

  Then everyone was swarming happily around him. Except me unperturbable, steady Bribbens. The boatman remained at his post, eyes directed calculatingly upstream. They had left the boat in his hands, and he left the congratulating in theirs.

  It was later that Mudge found Jon-Tom seated near the bow and staring morosely ahead. Strong wind from behind lifted his bright green cape, and he tucked it around and between his upraised knees. The duar lay in his lap. He plucked disconsolately at it as multihued formations passed in glowing revue.

  " 'Ere now, lad," said the otter concernedly, leaning over and squeak-sniffing, "wot's the matter, then? That Massawatchoriswhatever's behind us now, not comin' down at us."

  Jon-Tom drew another chord from the instrument, smiled faintly up at the otter. "I blew it, Mudge." When the otter continued to look puzzled, he added, "I could've done the same thing as Clothahump, but I couldn't come up with the right music." He looked down at the duar.

  "I couldn't think of a single appropriate tune, not even a chord. If it had all been up to me," he said with a shrug, "we'd all be dead by now."

  "But we ain't," Mudge pointed out cheerfully, "and that be the important thing."

  "Our cheeky companion is correct, you know." Caz had come up behind them both. Now he stood opposite Mudge, looking at the seated human. His paws were behind his back and folded just above the putfball of a tail. "I doesn't matter who does the saving. Just as friend Mudge says, the fact that we are saved is the important thing. Remember, it was you who tamed the great Falameezar that fiery night in Polastrindu. Not Clothahump. You want to hold all the glory for yourself?"

  When he saw that the irony was lost on Jon-Tom he added, "We all work for the same end. It matters nothing who does what so long as that end is achieved. It shall be, unless some of us put our personal feelings and desires above it."

  Mudge looked a little uncomfortable at the rabbit's bluntness. " 'E's right, mate. We can't be thinkin' o' ourselves in this business." The last was said with a straight face. "You'll 'ave plenty o' opportunity t' demonstrate your wonderfulnes' t' the ladies when this all be done with." He winked anG whistled knowingly before leaving for the stem.

  Caz considered giving the self-pitying human a comforting pat, decided Jon-Tom might regard it as patronizing, and left to join Mudge.

  Jon-Tom, sitting by himself, muttered aloud, "The ladie have nothing to do with it." He watched the cavern wall' glide past. Gentle spray licked his face, kicked up from the bow as the boat made its way upstream.

  They didn't, he insisted to himself, resting his chin o. folded hands. He'd only been worried about the general welfare.

  Then he grinned, though there was no one to see him. The trouble with studying law is that you develop a tendency u bullshit yourself as well as your counterparts. What about this theory that all great events, all the turning points of history had in some measure or another been motivated by matters of passion? Catherine the Great, Napoleon, Hitler, Washington; the sexual theory of history explained a hell of a lot of things economics and social migration and such did not.

  It was quite a different kind of history that balanced on this outcome of their little expedition. Jon-Tom had never accorded the theory much credit anyway. Yet though meant at least partly in jest, Mudge's words forced home to him how often emotional yearnings coupled with the basic desires of the body could overwhelm those usually thought of as rational creatures.

  So he was sitting there moping about nothing except himself. That was selfish and stupid. Maybe it had affected the thinking of Napoleon and Tiberius and others, but it wouldn't affect him. It was a damn good thing Clothahump had found the words that had escaped his human companion.

  His moroseness fading, he strummed softly on the duar. A flicker of dancing motes haunted his left elbow. When he turned to inspect them, they'd gone. Gneechees.

  What still did worry him was the thought that the next time he might be called upon to sing some magic, he might be as mentally paralyzed as he'd been when nearing Helldrink. He would have to fight that.

  It wasn't the thought of death or the failure of their mission that troubled him as he sat there and played. It was a fear of personal failure, a fear that had haunted him since he'd been a child. It was the fear which had driven him to pursue two different careers without being able to choose between them.

  And though he didn't realize it, it was the fear which had driven more men and women to greatness than far more rational motivations…

  VIII

  Several days later the cathedral hove into view. It was not a cathedral, of course. But it might have been. No one could say. That turned out not to be as confusing as it seemed.

  To Jon-Tom it looked like a cathedral. The ceiling of the great underground chamber in which it rose was several hundred feet high. Towers and turrets nearly touched that far stone roof. At that distance massive stalactites, each weighing many tons, resembled pins hanging from a carpet.

  The bioluminescents were especially dense here and the chamber and its far reaches so brightly lit that it took me travelers several minutes to adjust to that unexpectedly vibrant organic glow.

  It was more like a hundred cathedrals, Jon-Tom thought, all executed in miniature and piled one atop the other. Care and fine craftsmanship were apparent in every line and curve of the labyrinthine structure. Thousands of tiny colored windows gleamed on dozens of levels. The edifice filled much of the huge chamber.

  It was a measure of the distances his mind had crossed that it was only incidental to him that the building shone a rich, metallic gold. Of course, that might only be a result of extensive use of gilt paint. Still, he vowed privately to keep a close watch on their avaricious otter.

  The term miniature was applicable to more than just the building. When it became clear to them that the inhabitants of the strange boat were not hostile, the builders began to show themselves.

  No more than four inches tall, the little people were covered with a rich umber fur that suggested sable. This fur was quite short, and long, fine hair of the same shade grew on the heads of male and female alike. Hordes of them started emerging from tiny doors and cubbyholes. Most resumed working on the building. Acres of scaffolding bristled on battlements and turrets and towers. One group of several dozen were installing a massive window all of a yard high.

  Bribbens eased the boat in toward shore. At closer range they could make out thousands of golden sculptures adorning the building, gargoyles and worm-sized snakes and things only half realized because they originated in other dimensions, from a different biological geometry. Unlike the gneechees, these wonderful creations could be viewed, if not wholly perceived.

  As the boat drifted still closer the thousands of tiny workers began milling uncomfortably, clustering close by doorways and other openings. Ion-Tom hailed them from his position at the bow, trying to assuage their worries.

  "We mean you no harm," he called gently. "We're only passing through your lands and admire your incredible building. What's it for?"

  From the crest of a water-caressed rock a fur-covered nymph all of three and a half inches tall shouted back at him. He had to strain to understand the tiny lady.

  "It is the Building," she told him matter-of-factly, as though that should be explanation enough to satisfy anyone.

  "Yes," and he lowered his voice still further when he saw that his normal tone was painfully loud to her, "but what is the building for?"

  "It is the Building," the sprite reiterated. "We call it 'Heart-of-the-World.' Does it not shine brightly?"

  "Very brightly," Talea said appreciatively. "It's very beautiful. But what is it for?"

  The down-clad waif laughed delicately. "We are not sure. We have always worked on the Building. We always will work on the Building. What else is there to -life but the Building?"

  "You say you call it 'Heart-of-the-World.'" Jon-Tom studied the radiant walls and glistening spires. At first he thought it had been made of real gold, then stone covered
with gilt paint. Now he wasn't sure. It might be metal of another kind, or plastic, or ceramic, or some unimaginable material he knew nothing of.

  "Perhaps it is the very heart of the world itself," the little lady offered in suggestion. She smiled joyfully, showing perfect minuscule teeth. "We do not know. It beats with light as a heart does. If our work were to be stopped, perhaps the light would go out of the world."

  Jon-Tom considered saying more but found reason and reality at odds with one another, mixed up like a dog and a cat chasing each other around a pole, getting nowhere. He looked helplessly to Clothahump for an explanation. So did his companions.

  "Who can say?" The wizard shrugged. "If it is truly the architecture of the heart of the world, then at least we can tell others that the world is well and truly fashioned."

  "Thank you, sir." The sprite leaped nimbly to another rock further upstream to keep pace with them. "We do our best. We have become very adept at adding to and maintaining the Building."

  "Make sure," Jon-Tom called to her, "that its glow never goes out!" They were passing into a, narrower section of the river cavern, leaving the unnamed little folk and their enigmatic, immense construct behind.

  "Who knows," he said quietly to Flor, "if it is the heart of the world, then they'd better not be disturbed in their work. That's a hell of a responsibility. And if it's not, if it's only a building, an obsession, it's too beautiful to let die anyway."

  "I never thought the heart of the world would be a building," she said.

  "Aren't we all structures?" With the Massawrath and Helldrink safely far behind he was feeling alive and expansive. He'd always been that way: high ups and abyssal downs. Right now he was up.

  "Each of us develops piece by piece. We're full of carefully built rooms and halls, audience chambers and windows, and we're populated with changing individualistic thoughts. I never imagined the heart of the world would be a building, though." He stared back down the tunnel. It was growing dark, the radiant growths vanishing as they were prone to at unexpected intervals.

  "In fact, I never thought of the world as having a heart."

  The last rich light from the distant chamber was lost to sight as they rounded a slight bend in the river. Bribbens was lighting the first lamp.

  "That's a nice thought, Jon-Tom. If only having a heart meant you would be happy."

  "I suppose it often means the opposite." But when the import of her last comment finally penetrated, she had left him to chat with their stolid steersman.

  Jon-Tom hesitated, thought about pursuing it further by rejoining her to say, "Flor, are you trying to tell me something?" But he was as afraid of showing ignorance if he was interpreting her wrongly as he was of failure.

  So he sat himself down in the nickering light and began to clean and tune his duar. As he tightened or loosened the strings, a gneechee or two would appear behind him, peering over his shoulder. He knew they were there and did his best to ignore them.

  They were compelled to run on lamplight. Gradually the immense cave formations, the helictites and flowstone and such, began to grow smaller. In the narrowing confines of the river channel the rush and roar reverberated louder from the walls. The continuing absence of the familiar fluorescent fungi and their cousins was becoming unsettling.

  No one liked the darkness. It reminded them too much of sleep, and that reminded them of the now distant but never to be forgotten sight of the Massawrath. More importantly, their lamp oil was running out. Bribbens had prepared well, but he hadn't expected to journey for long in total darkness. The now sorely missed bioluminescents were all that had kept them from traveling in black. Soon it appeared they might have to do so, relying on Pog's abilities to guide them, unless the light-producing vegetation reappeared.

  A hand was shaking him. It was too small to be part of the Massawrath, too solid to be one of its children. Nevertheless he had an instant of terror before coming awake.

  "Get up, Jon-Tom. Move your ass!" It was the urgent voice of Talea.

  "What?" But before he could say anything more she'd moved on to the next sleeping form. He heard her banging on an echoing surface.

  "Wake up, wizard. You lazy old wizard, wake up!" She sounded worried.

  "I still admit to 'old' but not the other." A grumbling Clothahump clambered to his feet.

  Jon-Tom blinked, fought to dig sleep from his eyes. It was hard to see anything in the reduced light from the lamps. Bribbens was trying to conserve their dwindling supply of oil.

  Then he saw the cause of her anxiety. In the blackness ahead was a writhing sheet of flame, completely blocking the river. It hung in the air there, a dull, thick orange-silver that did not move. The others awoke and moved to the bow to examine it. All agreed it was a most peculiar kind of fire.

  As they cruised closer no rise in temperature or indeed any heat at all could be felt. The orange-silver hue did not change.

  "Can it be another structure like the Heart-of-the-Wbrld building of the little folk?" Flor licked her lower lip and stared anxiously forward.

  "No, no. The color is all wrong, supple shadow, and there is no sign of separation; levels, floors, or windows." Caz faced the wizard. "What is your opinion of it, sir?"

  "Just a moment, will you?" Clothahump sounded irritable. "I'm not fully awake yet. Do you children think I have your physical resiliency simply because my brain is so much more active? Now then, this surely cannot be dangerous." He called back to Bribbens. "Steady ahead, my good boatman."

  "Don't have much choice." The frog snapped off his reply as he tightened his grip on the steering sweep. "Tunnel's become too narrow for us to turn 'round in. Some of the rocks hereabouts look sharp. I don't want to chance 'em, so it's steady ahead unless it turns desperate."

  The boatman was forced to raise his voice to a near shout to make himself understood. The rush of air in the pipe of a cave argued noisily with the increased force of me current.

  They watched silently while mat cold flame came nearer. Then there was another, dimmer light haloing it, and the orange-silver no longer blocked their progress. The new light came from tiny shining points that flickered unevenly, but not like gneechees. These were both visible and motionless.

  "Well, shit." Mudge put hands on hips and sounded thoroughly disgusted with himself. " 'Tis a prize pack o' idiots we be, mates."

  Jon-Tom didn't understand immediately, but it didn't take long until he knew the reason for the otter's embarrassment. When he did so he felt equally ashamed of his own fear.

  The orange-silvery color was familiar enough. Then they emerged from the cavern. The great rising orb of moon no longer shone directly down into the Earth's Throat.

  "We made it." He hugged a startled Talea. "Damned if we didn't!"

  The character of the land they had emerged into was very different from that of the Swordsward and the river country of Bribbens' home. It was evident they had climbed a considerable distance.

  Behind them towering crags reached for the stars. Clouds capped them, though they were not as thick as those on the eastern flanks of the range. No open plains or low scrub bordered the river here. There was no fragrant coniferous forest or high desert.

  Mountains rose all around the little river valley in which they found themselves. Despite the altitude the country displayed the aspect of more tropical climes. It was warm but not hot, nor was it particularly humid. Jon-Tom thought of a temperate-zone climax forest.

  Vines and creepers leaped from tree to tree. A thick undergrowth prevented them from seeing more than a few yards inland on either shore.

  It was with relief that Jon-Tom inhaled the fresh air, fragrant with the aroma of flowers and green things. Though hardly tropical, the climate was more pleasant despite the altitude than any place he'd yet been. Compared to the bone-rattling winds of the Swordsward it was positively Edenic.

  "Fine country," he said enthusiastically. "I'm surprised none of the warmlanders have tried to migrate here."

  "Even if the
y knew this land existed they could not get over the mountains," Clothahump reminded him. "Only a very few in memory have ever made that journey. Even if would-be settlers could survive the trip, kindly keep in mind that this land is already occupied. Legend says the Weavers dislike any strangers. Consider what their opinion would be of potential colonists."

  "And these are the people we're trying to make allies of?" Flor wondered.

  "They are not overt enemies," Clothahump told her, shaking his head slowly. "Legend says they are content enough here in their land. Yet I admit legend also insists they hold no love for any but their own kind. It is said they like most to keep to themselves and maintain their privacy.

  "As near as I know we are the first folk to journey past the mountain barrier in hundreds of years. Perhaps the legends no longer hold true. It may be that in all that time the inhabitants of the Scuttleteau have mellowed."

  "They sure sound charming," said Flor apprehensively. "I can't wait to meet them." Her voice rose in tone, and she mimed a sardonic greeting. "Buenos dias, Sefior Weaver. Como esta usted, and please don't eat me, I'm only a tourist." She sighed and grimaced at me wizard. "I wish I were as confident of success as you are."

  "I'm 'ardly an optimist, meself," Mudge commented, surveying the near shore and considering a warm swim.

  "Oh well. Surely they will see the need," said Caz hopefully, "to stand together against a common threat."

  "That is to be hoped," the wizard agreed. "But we cannot be certain. We can only pray for a friendly welcome. Should we actually achieve anything more than that, it would exceed my wildest hopes."

  There were some shocked looks in response to that. JonTom spoke for all of them. "You mean… you're not sure you can persuade them?"

  "My dear boy, I never made any such claim."

  "But you gave me the impression…"

  Clothahump held up a hand. "I made no promises. I merely stated that there was little we could do if we remained in Polastrindu and that we might have some chance of securing another strong ally were we to successfully complete this journey. I never said that reaching the Scuttleteau was a guarantee we could do that. Nor did I ever display any optimism about striking such an alliance. I simply declared that I thought it would be a good idea to try."