“Perhaps there are other magic words that mean the same thing?” Pivver speculated.
“I’d think that meself, except that ’e’s always talkin’ about the need to be specific in ’is spellsingin’, and that if ’e ain’t, ’tis impossible to predict wot might ’appen when—”
With a sharp bang from the engine, Jon-Tom was thrown back in his seat so abruptly that his desperate grab completely missed the control stick. Princesses and soldiers went flying. Only Umagi’s quick thinking and great strength enabled her to grab the scion of Borobos before she went sailing over-board.
“Thank you,” Ansibette told her rescuer.
“That’s all right, dear. We primates must look out for one another.”
Hard upon this rescue, a second blast erupted from the vicinity of the swamp buggy’s engine, knocking both of them to the aluminum floor of the craft. This time Jon-Tom was nearly tossed from the boat and had to fight to hang on to his seat. Though slowed, his reflexes were still fast enough to save him from being thrown backward into the propeller, which was now spinning with the force of a small hurricane.
Balancing the precious duar, he fought to get a hand on the madly gyrating control stick. His fellow travelers clung to anything sturdy while the swamp buggy rocketed wildly across the marsh, scattering all manner of muck dwellers in a hundred directions. The princesses were wailing, the soldiers cursing, and Mudge complaining with an eloquence only he could muster as Jon-Tom fought to reestablish control while blue flames spewed from the buggy’s exhaust pipes.
The otter’s voice was barely audible above the blazing thunder. “Wot the bloody ’ell did you sing about, mate?”
Finally getting a hand on the stick, the spellsinger struggled to restrain the runaway craft. “Drag racing!” he shouted down at Mudge. “I was singing about drag racing!”
Flat on the deck, Seshenshe and Aleaukauna exchanged a confused glance. “Drag racing?” mumbled the mongoose.
“What is this ‘drag racing’?”
“Ssurely ssome ssort of powerful magic,” replied Seshenshe. “Though, it would sseem, mosst difficult to masster.”
“See the flames?” Both hands now wrapped securely around the stick, Jon-Tom was able to straighten the boat out. The Karrakas sped past, a blur on either side of the boat.
“We’re running on pure alcohol!”
Warm wind ripping at his ears, Mudge managed to stand in the middle of the violently rocking craft. “Wot! An’ none for me to run on? Wot kind o’ a spellsingin’ friend are you?”
“This kind of alcohol you don’t need!” Jon-Tom bellowed back. “Besides, you’ve always managed to run just fine on boasts and lies, and I know you’re not running low on those!”
Once he had the swamp buggy back under control, he found time for other concerns. The first thing he did was direct everyone to move to the front of the craft to keep its nose down. Too much air under the bow at the speed they were going and there was a real danger that the swamp buggy might start to hydroplane. The last thing they wanted was to crash at their current speed.
Then he noticed Mudge and had to smile. Somehow hanging on to his hat, its long feather streaming straight back behind him, the otter was standing on the very prow of the buggy. Leaning forward and balancing himself into the wind, he looked for all the world like some crazed surfer hanging ten.
Yes, everything would be fine now, he told himself as they raced along at a velocity nothing short of preposterous. So long as they didn’t blow up.
* See The Hour of the Gate
Chapter 14
RISING OUT OF THE water almost directly ahead, the low-lying island appeared at precisely the worst possible moment. Attending to a call of nature, Jon-Tom had allowed Mudge to take the stick and was unable to make it back up to the driver’s chair in time to help avoid a collision.
As it was, he somehow managed to dodge around the big star-leaf trees which dominated the island vegetation. He was less successful in avoiding the profusion of smaller growths, a number of which, the travelers barely had time to note, were crowned with modest homes constructed of twigs, shells, and dried mud.
Peering curiously from the entrance of one tree house, an egret wearing a wafer-thin vest of yellow and chartreuse let out a startled screech and flapped frantically to gain altitude. Alerted, his terrified neighbors did their best to imitate him.
Traveling at close to forty miles per hour the swamp buggy hit the beach and skimmed straight across the island, smashing through small trees, bushes, gardens, houses, and everything else in its path. As the arboreal inhabitants scattered for their lives, those on board the boat ducked and covered their heads with their hands. Sand, branches, leaves, fruit, and the occasional household utensil ricocheted off princess and commoner with perfect equanimity.
Sliding back into the water on the far side of the abused islet, the swamp buggy’s engine backfired impressively a couple of times before shutting down. Possibly for good, Jon-Tom worried as he uncovered his face and turned to inspect the frayed propeller. Burning smells rose from the blackened engine, but at least there was no fire.
Attire askew and with the assistance of Lieutenant Naike and his gallant trio, the dazed princesses were slowly picking themselves off the deck.
“What did we hit?” Seshenshe gingerly felt of her mouth. “I think I broke a tooth.”
“an island. we hit an island.” Quiquell was gasping softly. “i chipped a nail.” As the claw in question was nearly four inches long, this minor catastrophe was not likely to physically inconvenience the Princess of Opan.
Mudge had adjusted his accouterments and was standing close to his friend, peering over his shoulder as the spellsinger knelt to examine the engine. “Wot’s our status, then, mate? Sorceral or otherwise.”
“Where I come from, they call vehicles that run on alcohol ‘funny cars.’ Now I see why. We’re out of fuel, Mudge.”
“Crikey, that’s no problem, then. Just resing the same tune you sang before.”
“You know how I feel about repeating spellsongs. Though in this case I don’t see that we have much choice.” He squinted back at the inopportunely placed island. A clean swath was clearly visible right through the middle of the vegetation, as though a giant runaway lawn mower had viciously assaulted the unsuspecting verdure. “If we can get this going again, I’ll just have to pay a little more attention to my driving.”
Pivver plucked a whisker from her teeth. During the brief but madcap landward portion of their journey she had inadvertently bitten it off.
Jon-Tom brought his palm as close to the engine as he dared. Heat radiated powerfully from the overstressed metal. “Seems to be sound. We’ll just let it cool down for a bit.”
“While it’s cooling down,” a new voice said from behind him, “maybe you can decide what you’re going to do about us.”
Turning, man and otter looked on as a dozen or so feathered inhabitants of the island touched down gently on the starboard side of the swamp buggy, perching on the gunwale. The group consisted of males, females, and several two-foot-tall juveniles. Others were beginning to emerge from concealment in the surviving trees to inspect the damage the boat had wrought to their homes.
A four-foot-tall blue heron rested one wingtip on his hip while rubbing the lower portion of his long bill with the other. He wore a tattered but still serviceable decorative vest of some chiffonlike blue and green stripe. A pair of glasses perched precariously on his beak, halfway down its length.
Like the rest of his brethren, more than half his feathers had gone missing.
That last explosion from the engine, Jon-Tom told himself. That, and the violent effects of their props as the boat shot across the island. As he stared at the unfortunate heron, he fought to repress a smile.
Unsuccessful in a similar effort, Mudge found the sharp bill of an egret inches from his nose.
“What are you laughing at, water-rat?”
“N-nothing, guv.” Stripping off his
own clothing, the otter turned away from the battered bird. “Just thought I’d go for a quick swim.” Diving over the side, he disappeared beneath the surface. An inordinate amount of bubbles rose from the place where he’d entered the water.
“Oh, the poor things!” Clasping her hands together, Aleaukauna looked properly empathetic.
“Indeed.” Umagi adopted a look of dignified concern as she regarded the representatives of the devastated community.
All too soon, everyone’s attention shifted to Jon-Tom.
“Hey, look, I’m sorry! It could’ve been worse. I might’ve lost control.”
“Lost control? Lost control!” The blue heron glared through thick lenses at the spellsinger. “What do you call this? Look what you’ve done to our village! But at least that can be rebuilt. Look what you’ve done to us.” He held up a half-denuded wing.
“More of us would have come to confront you with evidence of your perfidy, but the rest are in worse shape than those you see here. Without feathers we can’t fly, without flying we can’t fish, without fish we’ll starve. What have you to say for yourselves?”
“Don’t panic.” Jon-Tom made soothing gestures. “I’m a sorcerer, a spellsinger. See?” He swung his duar around in front of him. The assembled villagers eyed the instrument dubiously. One juvenile swatted irritably at the chord cloud, which hung nearby, ringing curiously. “I’ll put things right, you’ll see.”
“Is it your spellsinging that is responsible for our present unspeakable condition?” the heron inquired sharply. Its beak, Jon-Tom noted, was as sharp as an awl.
Having demonstrated uncharacteristic courtesy by relieving himself underwater of his irresistible urge to chortle maniacally, Mudge popped out among a cluster of reeds and swung lithely back aboard.
“Ah, don’t sweat it, guv. Me mate’ll fix things.”
“And how, pray tell, do you intend to do that?” The egret’s manner was slightly more curious and less testy than that of the heron. It held up a wing. “By gluing our feathers back on?”
Jon-Tom had to admit that he couldn’t think of any old songs that dealt specifically with feathers. There were plenty of group allusions, from the Byrds to Hawkwind to the Eagles, but their songs tended to deal with subjects far less flighty than birds. As for original lyrics, he found the subject matter less than inspiring. He admitted as much to their indignant visitors.
“You knew enough to steal our feathers away.” Devoid of his familiar pink plumage, the near-naked spoonbill perched on the stern looked like a sorry reject from a failed fried chicken franchise.
“I’ll think of something, somehow,” Jon-Tom insisted.
“You’d better!” Led by Aleaukauna, the princesses had assembled in a line facing him. Each of them generated a glare perfected through years of dealing with persistent courtiers. Collectively they made him feel about a quarter better than utterly worthless.
“I said I’d do something, and I will.” I just don’t have the foggiest notion what that will be, he admitted to himself.
It struck him that what had begun as a simple hike in the wake of some enigmatic music had ballooned out of all proportion to what he’d intended. Which was, he knew, exactly what he should have expected based on previous journeys. He sighed resignedly.
“If everyone will just leave me alone for a minute I’ll try to satisfy everybody!” The unexpected outburst silenced his audience … for about ten seconds, after which time the princesses resumed excoriating him and the birds redoubled their complaints.
“Feathers first, I suppose. Give me some room, will you?” Still murmuring, the princesses retreated toward the bow, forcing the soldiers to make room where there was little to spare. The villagers watched with wary interest.
A gleam appeared in Jon-Tom’s eye. “I’ll fix things, but I want something in return.”
The heron blinked. “We owe you nothing, bringer of despair.”
“Nothing,” chorused a pair of smaller female herons from nearby. “It’s you who owe us.”
“Nevertheless, that’s the deal.”
Mudge was slipping into his shorts when this declaration left him wide-eyed with mock wonderment. “Well wot do you know! Maybe all those years spent in me company ’as done you some good after all, mate. That’s the first sensible thing I’ve ’eard you say since we started out on this bloody stroll.”
“You shut up!” yelled Jon-Tom. “You’ve been no help in this at all.”
“Oi, right, right!” Miffed, the otter turned his back on his friend. “Next you’ll be blamin’ your inept drivin’ on me as well.”
“I didn’t say that,” Jon-Tom protested. “Did I say that?”
“Please!” The heron spread his wings. “We have no choice. What is it you want?”
“Nothing for myself. But we’re trying to help these princesses return to their homes, and we need help.”
“Princesses?” The heron squinted, perhaps a little dazzled by the profusion of gold and chiffon gathered near the prow of the boat. “They don’t look much like princesses to me. No feathers.”
“That’s all right,” responded Seshenshe. “You have no manners.” A couple of soldiers chuckled appreciatively.
Jon-Tom hurried on. “I’ve been told there’s one decent-sized town at the bottom of the Karrakas, a place called Mashupro. I think I’m going the right way to get there, but there aren’t a lot of landmarks around here. The services of a knowledgeable guide would be very useful.”
“I know Mashupro. Sometimes we trade fish and crafts there.” Turning his head and long bill, the heron called out, “Felgrin!”
A slightly smaller heron poked its head out of a nearby hummock. Flying awkwardly due to the absence of many feathers, it limped over to land on the side of the swamp buggy.
“The vandals won’t help us unless someone agrees to guide them to Mashupro,” the blue heron informed the newcomer.
The other avian nodded, his long beak bobbing. “No problem. I’ll take them there, if I can get some feathers back.”
The nominal leader of the deplumed community turned back to the tall human. “You heard him. Get on with it.”
“I’ll do what I can.” Jon-Tom turned to advise his fellow travelers to keep clear, only to find that they had already taken precautions. By now they knew him well enough to need no urging.
Only mildly piqued, he contemplated potential lyrics. Better tread carefully here, he warned himself. Jeans and high-tops were not what was wanting.
When eventually he started to sing, it began to rain. Sheer coincidence, he assured himself. In no way could his inventive lyrics about the beauty of birds on the wing be responsible for the sudden shower. Thunder rolled softly across the marsh, thunder that crackled intermittently, as if quilted.
The shower grew soft, and then it turned white. It was raining feathers. He smiled to himself as he played on. Exactly the result he’d hoped for, even if the methodology was a bit odd. The feathers continued to fall. Lots of feathers.
Tons of feathers.
They blanketed the marsh. Lilies disappeared beneath bushels of feathers. The princesses struggled to keep from being buried. Under Naike’s direction, the soldiers worked frantically to keep the boat shoveled out. Mudge tried to lambaste his friend but could do no more than spit out the feathers that filled his mouth every time he parted his lips.
Jon-Tom could hardly sing for the seeping feathers. It was definitely time to abort the spellsong. One thing he made certain of as he concluded was not to sing anything even vaguely incendiary.
Wind seemed a more useful device, and that was a subject for which he had an ample supply of songs, old and new. The stiff breeze that arose in response to his demand banished the plumed hills and dales, the feathery valleys and mountains, sending the great soft mass scudding off to the north where it could do no harm.
Not every feather was whisked away. True to the spell and to his hopes, he saw that those which had come in contact with the pitifully de
nuded inhabitants of the island had adhered. Their soft, colorful coats had been fully restored.
“This is no kind of sorcery I am familiar with.” The heron was preening his bright new plumage. “But I am willing to accept it.”
One of the egrets reached up with a prehensile foot and plucked at a long tail feather. “Ouch! They’re real enough, Singwit!”
The village leader was appeased. Feeling expansive and not a little cocky, Jon-Tom was willing to toss in an extra or two.
“Now that I’ve fixed you back up, maybe you’d like me to repair your damaged homes as well?”
Singwit didn’t hesitate. “I don’t see why not, since it seems you can work great magic for a song.”
“Far be it from me to play the party assassin,” said Mudge as he stepped forward and put a comradely arm around the heron’s shoulders, “but it might behoove you to rethink that casual permission in light o’ certain experiences I’ve ’ad meself. You’ve got your bloomin’ feathers back. Why not be content with that an’ not press your luck?”
The tall bird wiggled free of the otter’s grasp. “There is danger in continuing?”
“Mudge …” Jon-Tom began, but the otter ignored him.
“’Ere now, ’tis probably none o’ me business, but I ain’t got nowheres to ’ide in this flat, open country an’ I’m just thinkin’ you might be better takin’ your sorceral winnin’s, as it were, an’ continuin’ on.”
“Take the otter’s advice,” another of the egrets urged. “While we could not restore our bodies, we can certainly rebuild our homes.”
“Daylight dissipates.” Flapping experimentally, the heron Felgrin rose into the air. Like some exotic figurehead, he took up a perch on the very prow of the boat. With a wingtip he gestured toward a partly overgrown channel. “That way lies Mashupro.” Teetering casually on one foot, he scratched at the side of his bill with the other.
“If you can control this demonic craft, I’ll lead you straight to your destination. I’ve been there many times myself and know the way well.”
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