Spellsinger

by Alan Dean Foster

  No light showed in the two thick windows of the thatched building as Talea edged their wagon over close to it and brought it to a halt. The street was quite empty. The only movement was from the mouths and nostrils of lizards and passengers, where the increasing chill turned their exhalations to momentarily thicker, tired fog. He wondered again at the reptiles. Maybe they were hybrids with warm blood; if not, they were being extremely active for cold-blooded creatures on such a cold night.

  He climbed out of the back of the wagon and looked at the doorway close by. An engraved sign hung from two hooks over the portal. Letters painted in white declaimed:

  NILANTHOS-PHYSICIAN AND APOTHECARY

  A smaller sign in the near window listed the ailments that could be treated by the doctor. Some of them were unfamiliar to Jon-Tom, who knew a little of common disease but nothing whatsoever of veterinary medicine.

  Mudge and Talea were both whispering urgently at him. He moved out of the street and joined them by the door.

  It was recessed into the building, roofed over and concealed from the street. They were hidden from casual view as Talea knocked onee, twice, and then harder a third time on the milky bubble-glass set into the upper part of the door. She ignored the louder bellpull.

  They waited nervously but no one answered. At least no one passed them in the street, but an occasional distinct groan was now issuing from the back of the wagon.

  " 'E's not in, 'e ain't." Mudge looked worried. "I know a Doctor Paleetha. 'E's clear across town, though, and I can't say 'ow trustworthy 'e be, but if we've no one else t' turn t'..."

  There were sounds of movement inside and a low complaining voice coming closer. It was at that point that Jon-Tom became really scared for the first time since he'd materialized in this world. His first reactions had been more disbelief and confusion than fear, and later ones were tied to homesickness and terror of the unknown.

  But now, standing in an alien darkened street, accomplice to assault and battery and so utterly, totally alone, he started to shake. It was the kind of real, gut-chilling fear that doesn't frighten as much as it numbs all reality. The whole soul and body just turn stone cold--cold as the water at the bottom of a country well--and thoughts are fixated on a single, simple, all-consuming thought.

  I'm never going to get out of this alive.

  I'm going to die here.

  I want to go HOME!

  Oddly enough, it was a more distant fear that finally began to return him to normal. The assault of paranoia began to fade as he considered his surroundings. A dark street not unlike many others, pavement, mist chill inside his nose; no fear in any of those. And what of his companions? A scintillating if irascible redhead and an oversized but intelligent otter, both of whom were allies and not enemies. Better to worry about Clothahump's tale of coming evil than his own miserable but hardly deadly situation.

  "What's the matter, mate?" Mudge stared at him with genuine coneern. "You're not goin' t' faint on me again, are you?"

  "Just queasy," said Talea sharply, though not nearly as sharply as before. "It's a nasty business, this."

  "No." Jon-Tom shook away the last clinging rags of fear. They vanished into the night. "It's not that. I'm fine, thanks." His true thoughts he kept to himself.

  She looked at him uncertainly a moment longer, then turned back to the door as Mudge said, "I 'ear somethin'."

  Footsteps sounded faintly from just inside. There was a rattling at the doorknob. Inside, someone cursed a faulty lock.

  Their attention directed away from him, Jon-Tom dissected the fragment of Clothahump's warning whose import had just occurred to him.

  If something could bring a great evil from his own world into this one, an evil which none here including Clothahump could understand, why could not that same maleficent force reverse the channel one day and thrust some similar unmentionable horror on his own unsuspecting world? Preoccupied as it was with petty politics and intertribal squabbles between nations, could it survive a powerful assault of incomprehensible and destructive magic from this world? No one would believe what was happening, just as he hadn't believed his first encounters with Clothahump's magic.

  According to the aged wizard, an evil was abroad in this place and time that would make the minions of Nazism look like Sunday School kids. Would an evil like that be content at consuming this world alone, or would it reach out for further and perhaps simpler conquests?

  As a student of history that was one answer he knew. The appetite of evil far exceeds that of the benign. Success fed rather than sated its appetite for destruction. That was a truth that had plagued mankind throughout its entire history. What he had seen around him since coming here did not lead him to think it would be otherwise with the force Clothahump so feared.

  Somewhere in this world a terror beyond his imagining swelled and prepared. He pictured Clothahump again: the squat, almost comical turtle shape with its plastron compartments; the hexagonal little glasses; the absentminded way of speaking; and he forced himself to consider him beyond the mere physical image. He remembered the glimpses of Clothahump's real power. For all the insults Pog and Mudge levied at the wizard, they were always tinged with respect.

  So on those rounded--indeed, nonexistent--shoulders rested possibly not only the destiny of one, but of two worlds: this, and his own, the latter dreaming innocently along in a universe of predictable physics.

  He looked down at his watch, no longer ticking, remembered his lighter, which had flared efficiently one last time before running out of fuel. The laws of science functioned here as they did at home. Mudge had been unfamiliar with the "spell," the physics, which had operated his watch and lighter. Research here had taken a divergent path. Science in his own, magic in this one. The words were similar, but not the methodology of application.

  Would not evil spells as well as benign ones operate to bewildering effect in his own world?

  He took a deep breath. If such was the case, then he no longer had a safe place to run to.

  If that was true, what was he doing here? He ought to be back at the Tree, not pleading to be sent home but offering what little help he could, if only his size and strength, to Clothahump. For if the turtle was not senile, if he was correct about the menace that Jon-Tom now saw threatened him anywhere, then there was a good chance he would die, and his parents, and his brother in Seattle, and...

  The enormity of it was too much. Jon-Tom was no world-shaker. One thing at a time, boy, he told himself. You can't save worlds if you're locked up in a filthy local jail, puking your lunch all over yourself because the local cops don't play by the rules. As you surely will if you don't listen to Mudge and help this lovely lady.

  "I'm all right now," he muttered softly. "We'll take things easy, pursue the internal logic. Just like researching a test case for class."

  "Wot's that, mate?"

  "Nothing." The otter eyed him a moment longer, then turned back to the door.

  Life is a series of tests, Jon-Tom reminded himself. Where had read that? Not in the laws of ancient Peru, or in Basic Torts or California Contracts. But he was ready for it now, for whatever sudden turns and twists life might throw at him.

  Feeling considerably more at peace with himself and the universe, he stood facing the entrance and waited to be told what to do next.

  The stubborn knob finally turned. A shape stood inside, staring back at them. Once it had been massively proportioned, but the flesh had sagged with age. The arms were nearly as long as the otter's whole body. One held a lantern high enough to shower light down even on Jon-Tom's head.

  The old orangutan's whiskers shaded from russet to gray. His glasses were round and familiar, with golden metal rims. Jon-Tom decided that either wizardly spells for improving eyesight were unknown or else local magic had not progressed that far.

  A flowing nightgown of silk and lace and a decidedly feminine cast clad that simian shape. Jon-Tom was careful not to snicker. Nothing surprised him anymore.

  "W
eel, what ees eet at thees howar?" He had a voice like a rusty lawnmower. Then he was squinting over the top rims of the glasses at Talea. "You. Don't I know you?"

  "You should," she replied quickly. "Talea of the High Winds and Moonflame. I did a favor for you once."

  Nilanthos continued to stare at her, then nodded slowly. "Ah yes, I reemeember you now. Taleea off thee poleece records and thee dubeeous reeputation,'" he said with a mocking smile.

  Talea was not upset. "Then along with my reputation you'll recall those six vials of drugs I got for you. The ones whose possession is frowned upon by the sorceral societies, an exclusion extended even to," she coughed delicately, "physicians."

  "Yees, yees, off course I reemeember." He sighed resignedly. "A deebt ees a deebt. What ees your probleem that you must call mee op from sleep so late?"

  "We have two problems, actually." She started for the wagon. "Keep the door open."

  Jon-Tom and Mudge joined her. Hastily they threw aside the blanket and wrestled out the two unlucky victims of Talea's nighttime activities. The muskrat was now snoring noisily and healthily, much to Jon-Tom's relief.

  Nilanthos stood aside, holding the lamp aloft while the grisly delivery was hauled inside. He peered anxiously out into the street.

  "Surgeree ees een back."

  "I... remember." Talea grunted under her half of squirrel-quette burden. Blood dripped occasionally onto the tiled floor. "You offered me a free 'examination,' remember?"

  The doctor closed and locked the door, made nervous quieting motions. "Sssh, pleese. If you wakeen thee wife, I weel not bee able to canceel my half off thee deebt. And no talk off exameenations."

  "Quit trembling. I just like to see you sweat a little, that's all."

  Nilanthos followed them, his attention now on the limp form slung over Jon-Tom's shoulders. "Eef eether off theese pair are dead, wee weel all sweat a leetle." Then his eyes widened as he apparently recognized the blubbering muskrat.

  "Good God, eet's Counceelman Avelleeum! Couldn't you have peeked a leess dangerous veecteem? He could have us all drawn and quarteered."

  "He won't," she insisted. "I'm depending on you to see to that."

  "You and your good nature." Nilanthos closed the door behind them, moved to spark the oil lamps lining the surgery. "You might have been beetter off leeting theem die."

  "And what if they hadn't? What if they'd lived and remembered who attacked them? It was dark, but I can't be sure they'd never recognize me again."

  "Yees, yees, I see what you mean," he said thoughtfully. He stood at a nearby sink and was washing long-fingered hands carefully.

  "Weel then, what story should I geeve theem wheen they are brought around?" He was pulling on gloves and returning to the large central table on which the two patients had been deposited.

  Jon-Tom leaned back against a wall and watched with interest. Mudge paced the surgery and looked bored. Actually, he was keeping one eye on Nilanthos while searching for anything he might be able to swipe undetected.

  With a more personal interest in the welfare of the two victims, Talea stood close to the table as Nilanthos commenced his preliminary examination.

  "Tell them they had an accident," she instructed him.

  "What kind off acceedent?"

  "They ran into something." He looked over at her skeptically and she shrugged. "My fist. And the iron chain I had wrapped around it. And maybe a wall. Look, you're a doctor. Think of something reasonable, convince them. Some passersby found them and brought them to you."

  He shook his head dolefully. "Why a primate as attracteeve as yourseelf would eendulge een such neefarious doings ees more than I can fathom, Taleea."

  She moved back from the table. "You fix them up, and let me take care of me."

  Several minutes passed and the examination continued. "Thee Counceelman weel bee fine. Hee has onlee a mild concussion and minor cuts and bruises. I know. I weel make arrangements to have heem deeposited on hees front doorstep by a couple off rats I know who weel do that sort off work weethout letting cureeosity get een their way." He turned his gaze on the squirrelquette, long fingers moving carefully through her hair.

  "Theese one ees not as good. There ees a chance off a skull fracture." He looked up at Talea. "That means posseeble eenternal een-juries." The subject of the examination moaned softly.

  "She seems lively enough," Talea commented.

  "Appeerances can deeceive, eespecially weeth head eenjuriees." He was applying disinfectant and then bandaging to the wound. The bandage promptly began to show a dark stain. "I'll just have to watch her carefullee. Do you by any chance know her?" Talea shook her head.

  "Neither do I. The Counceelman's lady for thee evening. Probably lady off thee eevening, too. Shee'll bee angry when shee regains consciousness, but no dangeer. I'll see to that, too."

  "Good." Talea started for the exit, hesitated, put a hand on the orang's broad shoulder. "Thanks, Nilanthos. You've more than canceled out our debt. Now I owe you. Call on me if you need my services."

  The physician replied with a wide simian leer.

  "Professionally, I mean." The leer broadened. "You are impossible, Nilanthos!" She feigned a swing at him.

  "Do not strike thee doctor while hee ees een thee process off performing hees heeling duties."

  "That's a laugh! But I still owe you."

  "Honor among theeves, ees that eet?" He looked seriously down at the squirrelquette and the now badly stained bandage wrapped around her skull. "Veree weel. For now eet's best eef you all geet out off heer." He said it while staring at Mudge.

  The otter nodded, moved away from the slipcatch-latched drug-and-narcotics case where he'd been idling the past several minutes.

  "What's the hurry?" Jon-Tom wanted to know.

  Mudge put a hand on his arm, pulled him along. "Be you daft, mate? We've got t' get out o' town."

  "But I don't... I thought..." He barely remembered to duck as they exited the surgery. "If Doctor Nilanthos is going to take care of things as he said, why do we have to run?"

  "Cor, he can take away the worries as far as those two in there be concerned, but someone else might 'ave seen us. They might even now be reportin' us t' the police. Your size makes us too conspicuous, lad. We 'ave t' leave, especially after that fight in the Pearl Possum."

  "But I still don't see..."

  "Not now, mate." Mudge was insistent. They were out in the dark street again.

  "Come on, Jon-Tom," said Talea. "Don't make trouble."

  He halted, stared open-mouthed at her. "Me make trouble? I've been the innocent victim of trouble ever since I set foot in this stinking, lousy excuse for a world."

  "Easy now, mate." Mudge looked sideways at him. "Don't be sayin' somethin' you may be sorry for later."

  Jon-Tom's carefully constructed calm had lasted about ten minutes. His voice rose unreasonably, echoing in the mist. "I don't regret anything I have to say!" Talea was looking back toward town, clearly upset. "I want to see some of the goodness, the kindness that this world should have."

  "Should 'ave?" Mudge looked confused. "By who's determination?"

  "By the..." His voice trailed off. What could he say? By the rights of legend. What legend? By logic? Mudge was right.

  "Oh, never mind." The anger and frustration which had flared inside faded quickly. "So we're fugitives. So I make us conspicuous. That's the way it is." He nodded at nothing in particular. "Let's get going, then."

  He vaulted into the back of the wagon. Mudge climbed into the front seat, caught Talea's questioning glance, and could only shrug blankly. She hefted the reins and let out a vibrant whistle. The somnolent lizards came awake, leaned forward into their reins. The wagon resumed its steady forward motion, the thick feet of its team sounding like sacks of flour landing on the damp pavement.

  Jon-Tom noted that they were headed out of town, as Mudge had insisted they must. Houses decorated with little gardens slipped past. No lights showed in their windows at this stygian hou
r.

  They passed the last street lamp. Here the road turned from cobblestone to gravel. Even that gave way to a muddy track only a little while later. All light had vanished behind them.

  It was deep night of early morning now. The mist continued to dog them, keeping them wet and chilled. Never is the winter so cloying as at night.

  Among the occupants of the wagon only Jon-Tom had a lingering concern for the greater night that threatened to do more to the world than chill it. Talea and Mudge are creatures of the moment, he thought. They cannot grasp the significance of Clothahump's visions. He huddled deeper under the gray blanket, ignoring the persistent aroma of the squirrelquette's perfume. It clashed with the smell of dried blood.

  Thunder crossed the sky overhead, oral signatory to the last distant vestiges of the night storm. It helped them bid farewell to Lynchbany. He was not sorry to leave.

  Soon they were in the woods. Oaks and elms showed familiar silhouettes against the more melodious boles of belltree and coronet vine. The latter generated an oboesque sob as if pleading for the advent of day and the refreshing heat of the sun.

  For hours they plodded steadily on. The road wound like a stream around the hills, taking advantage of the lowest route, never cresting more than an occasional rise. Small lakes and ponds sometimes flanked the trail. They were inhabited by a vast assortment of aquatic lizards who meeped and gibbered in place of frogs. Each glowed a different color, some green, others red or pink, still others a rich azure. Each bubble of sound was accompanied by an increase in light. The ponds were full of chirping searchlights that drifted from branch to bank.

  Jon-Tom watched the water and its luminescent reptilians fade behind them. The ponds became a brook which ran fast and friendly alongside the rutted wagon track. Unlike the other travelers it was indifferent to who might overhear its conversation, and it gurgled merrily while teasing their wheels.

  Resignation gave way once more to his natural curiosity.

  "Well, we're long out of town." He spoke to Talea. "Where are we going?" Rising to his knees he reached out a hand to steady himself in the jouncing wagon. It gave an unexpected lurch to the right, and he caught her side instead of the back of the seat. Hastily he moved his fingers, but she had neither moved away nor protested.