The Time Of The Transferance

by Alan Dean Foster

  “And quickly.”

  “Why quickly, mate?” a woozy but exultant Mudge inquired.

  “Because I’m getting dizzy and I don’t know how long I can keep this up. I guess I neglected to mention it while I was trying to cure Teyva of his fear of heights, but I’m afraid of heights. Always have been.”

  “Oh, this is going to be fun!” And to demonstrate how much fun it was going to be the stallion executed a perfect loop-the-loop, thereby allowing Jon-Tom to add the contents of his stomach to the gifts Teyva had already bestowed on the devastated populace below.

  “Afraid of heights, man?” The stallion let out a whinny that could be heard across half the continent. “What a foolish notion! It seems to me that I was once afraid of heights. I can’t imagine why. You must let me talk to you about it sometime.”

  “You betcha.” Jon-Tom wiped his lips. “Could we go now—please?”

  “To Chejiji it is.” He leaned forward, a determined look on his face, and in a minute they were out over the silvery expanse of the ocean.

  “Wait, wait a minute!”

  “I thought you said quickly.”

  He pointed downward. “We have to get our things. That is, if you think you can handle a little additional weight.”

  “Weight? What is weight?”

  Mudge searched until he located the outrigger where he and Weegee had stowed their backpacks. Teyva executed another heart-rending dive, waited impatiently while they gathered up their supplies.

  “I could carry the boat as well, if you like.”

  “That won’t be necessary.” Jon-Tom resumed his seat on the stallion’s broad back. With weapons, food, and the splinters of his precious duar once more in hand they rose again over the water.

  Anyone on shore who chose that moment to look skyward would have seen a most unusual silhouette crossing the face of the full moon, and might also have heard the whinny of pure delight the stallion Teyva emitted. Might have also heard the sharp smack of paw on furry face accompanied by a feminine voice saying, “Mudge, don’t try that again.”

  “But luv,” another voice then plaintively replied, “I never did it on the back o’ a flyin’ ‘orse before.”

  Arguments, whinnies and wings shrank toward the starlit horizon.

  XII

  Teyva was all for striking out straight across the open sea, but Jon-Tom didn’t trust the stallion’s navigational skills enough to abandon the coastline entirely. So they stuck to the shore, following it steadily southward until it began a long westward curve that would carry them to the vicinity of Chejiji. The farther they flew the more they saw that this part of the world was virtually unpopulated. Not even an isolated fishing village appeared beneath them.

  “Not bad country.” Cautious gazed down from his perch at the terrain slipping past below. “Wonder why so empty?”

  “Tropics, swampland,” Jon-Tom commented. “Hard to fashion a city in dense jungle.”

  Mudge pointed suddenly. “Somebody did. ‘Ave a look at that, would you.”

  “Bank left,” Jon-Tom directed their mount. Teyva dropped his left wing slightly and they began to turn.

  Below them, hidden by vines and creepers and parasitic trees, lay the ruins of a great city. The massive stone bulk of huge pyramids and decorated walls poked through the choking vegetation. Shattered towers thrust skyward like broken teeth.

  “Wot do you make o’ that, mate?”

  “I don’t know.” Jon-Tom drank in the sight of the ruined metropolis. “Plague, tidal wave this close to the ocean. Who can say?”

  “Let’s ‘ave ourselves a closer look, wot?” Jon-Tom looked back in surprise. “Why Mudge, I thought you were anxious to get back to civilization.”

  “That I am, but lost cities tend to be chock full o’ things forgotten. Maybe bushels o’ corn an’ dried-up old vegetables, maybe bushels o’ somethin’ else.”

  Jon-Tom chuckled. “I don’t think we’ll find any buried treasure, but you can look if you want to. Set down atop that big temple or whatever it is over there, Teyva.”

  “As you wish, my friend, though I hate to land. Flying is such pleasure.”

  The stallion’s wing beats slowed. They fell in a descending spiral until he touched down gently on the apex of the ancient pyramid.

  From the ground the lost city was more impressive than it had been from above. It extended an unknown distance back into the dense jungle, where the vegetation was so thick it was impossible to tell where city ended and rain forest took over.

  A small building sat atop the pyramid. They entered in hopes of finding some clues to the nature of the city’s builders and their fate, but there were none to be seen. No bas-reliefs, no sculptures, no chipped friezes. Jon-Tom found the complete absence of any informative or decorative arts disturbing. It was almost as though the former inhabitants had made a conscious effort to maintain their anonymity down through the ages. All they found were some traces of tempera-painted plaster which mold and moisture had obliterated. Jon-Tom touched a fragment of blue and pink color. It crumbled to powder at the touch of his finger. “Jungle’s destroyed everything that wasn’t removed. It would’ve lasted in a desert climate, but not here.”

  “Not everythin’, mate!” came a shout.

  Mudge had crawled beneath a fallen beam. Now his voice echoed from beyond. “Come see wot I’ve found.”

  One by one they slithered through the opening. It was a tight squeeze for Jon-Tom. Teyva’s passage was out of the question. He remained outside, waiting on them.

  The chamber Mudge had discovered was in a much better state of preservation than anything they’d yet encountered. Perhaps it had been sealed for years and only recently exposed to the air. The plaster frescoes were intact. There were finely rendered scenes of ocean and beach, perhaps the very beach visible from the top of the pyramid. Fish cavorted in the shallows. There were scenes depicting cultivated plants, and weather, and mysterious imaginary beings, but no portraits of the city’s builders. They were anxious to illustrate the world in which they lived but downright paranoid about exhibiting themselves to posterity. Jon-Tom could think of one or two cultures in his own world that had phobias about rendering exact images of themselves.

  Besides the frescoes the chamber held several relics. A beautifully worked dressing table or desk with matching chair stood against the far wall. Both had been cut from some purplish wood that proved to be as hard as steel. In the center of the desk was an age-stained mirror. Shoved into the back of the chair was a sword that might have been forged yesterday. The handle gleamed like chrome. An indecipherable script covered the visible portion of the blade.

  On the dressing table to the left of the mirror sat a golden goblet. Closer inspection revealed that it was full of water and that the base was of pure rock crystal. Anyone drinking from it would be able to see through the transparent bottom.

  Except for these singular objects and the wall frescoes the room was bare and plain. There were no windows. The ceiling was fashioned of exceptionally thick timbers of the same purple wood from which the dressing table and chair had been carved. Slate and straw littered the floor, having fallen from overhead.

  Weegee shivered slightly. “It looks like somebody just stepped out.”

  Mudge put a comforting arm around her. “Glad they did. This is where fortunes are made, luv.”

  “I don’t see no fortune,” said Cautious. “I see a desk and chair, pretty but not special. Maybe the goblet and sword worth some money, maybe the gold fake.”

  Mudge approached the dressing table and picked up the goblet. Weegee sucked in an anxious breath, but no ghosts appeared to defend their property. The otter inspected it from every angle, holding it up to the light.

  “If this ain’t real gold I’ll eat me tail. Why don’t you ‘elp yourself to the sword, Jonny-Tom?” He gestured magnanimously at the chair and the weapon half buried within.

  “Thanks, but I’ll stick with my ramwood staff.”

  The
otter shrugged as he walked over to the chair. “Don’t say I didn’t offer to share.” He spat into one paw, rubbed it against its counterpart, and grabbed the sword handle with both hands. As his skin made contact with the metal it began to speak. Mudge jumped three feet. A faint yellow luminescence appeared, traveling from the handle down through the blade until the entire chair was glowing brightly.

  Weegee was backing rapidly toward the crawlway. “Mudge, you put your hands on too many things.”

  The otter hesitated, then stepped back to the chair and resumed his grip. “So wot? It ain’t doin’ nothin’.”

  “It spoke. I heard it.”

  “I heard it too,” Jon-Tom said.

  “I ain’t afraid o’ no sword voice. Tis the edge that concerns me.”

  “Higher,” said the sword.

  Mudge licked his lips, feeling suddenly less bold, but followed the weapon’s instructions by sliding his paws upward a few inches.

  “That’s better.”

  Like a recording, Jon-Tom thought, moving closer. Same inflection, tone, and decibel level as the first time. Not a suggestion of intelligence so much as programming. It reacted to the touch of a living creature, no more.

  “I sense and I respondeth.”

  Mudge let go of the shaft, but this time the glow didn’t fade.

  “Respondeth? Wot the ‘ell kind o’ talk is that?”

  “Hush,” said Weegee. The sword continued.

  “Knoweth all who stand before me that I am the One and Sole True Sword. This chair is my home and I standeth guard o’er it for ever and ever.”

  “Wot, not forevereth?” Mudge said sarcastically. The sword ignored him.

  “Those who placed me here did so in the full knowledge that only a true hero can remove me from my home and take me out into the world where I may defend and profit such a hero greatly.” Now voice and luminescence faded together, but a faint aura clung to the weapon’s haft.

  “Pagh!” Mudge stepped back. “That’s a waste, then. Of no use to anybody.”

  “How do you know?” Weegee looked at each of them in turn. “We should try to remove it. Maybe there’s a true hero among us.”

  Mudge found this vastly amusing until she batted her lashes at him. “You first, Mudgey. You’re my true hero no matter what happens.”

  Mudge swelled with self-importance. “That puts a different light on it, luv, though I think I’m wastin’ me time. Never let it be said I let a request from a lady go unattended.”

  He walked back and studied the sword from every possible angle while his companions looked on anxiously. At last he hopped up into the chair, reached over and grabbed the handle of the sword with both paws, and heaved mightily. His whiskers quivered and the strain distorted his face. “Is it coming?” Weegee asked anxiously. He finally released the sword, let out a gasp and slumped over. “Is wot comin’? The sword, or me ‘ernia?” He climbed down. “I told you I weren’t no ‘ero, much less a true one. Never ‘ave been, never will be, an’ furthermore I don’t aspire to it. I’ll settle for bein’ yours, luv.” He looked to his right. “Why don’t you try it, mask-face?”

  “Be some surprise for sure, but why not?” The raccoon hopped up into the empty seat and gave a tug on the sword. He didn’t strain himself. “Sorry. Doen have the strength to be hero.”

  Jon-Tom was studying the chair. “Maybe brute force would work. I wonder if we could knock the chair over and let Teyva have a go at it.”

  “Not me,” said the flying horse from beyond the crawl way. “I don’t want to be a hero. I don’t want the responsibility. All I want is to fly. Speaking of which, could you hurry things up? I feel like I’ve been standing here simply for hours.” It had only been a few minutes, but the stallion was idling in overdrive.

  “Won’t be much longer.” He looked to the only female member of their little band. “Weegee?”

  “What, me?”

  “Sure, go on, luv.” Mudge gave her a nudge forward. “Just because that snippy section o’ steel said ‘ ‘ero’ don’t mean it couldn’t be talkin’ about a “eroine.”

  “I wouldn’t know what to do with a sword like that.” She hesitated. “I feel a lot more comfortable with a knife.”

  “You feel a lot more period,” Mudge chortled, “but give ‘er a try anyways.”

  She did so, and was unable to move the sword an inch. Mudge turned to gaze up at his tall friend. “I guess ‘tis up to you, mate. If there be any among us likely to qualify as a true ‘ero I expect ‘tis you. Either that, or for the looney bin.”

  Jon-Tom had to admit this was true. Had he not been thrust into that role several times during the past year, and hadn’t he emerged intact, unscathed and successful? Perhaps the sword was meant for him. Perhaps some unseen, unknown power had placed it here knowing he’ would require the use of it during the remainder of the journey. It might be a thing destined.

  Approaching the chair, he put one hand around the haft of the sword, the other around the hilt just below the guard, and straightened, pulling with his legs as well as with shoulders and arms. He tried several times.

  The sword didn’t budge.

  “Why don’t you sing to it, mate.” Mudge was leaning against the far wall. He wore an expression Jon-Tom couldn’t interpret and didn’t like.

  Finally he had to call a halt to his efforts, if only to catch his breath. “If I had my duar with me don’t think I wouldn’t.”

  The sword spoke up. “Knoweth all that I am the One True Sword.”

  “Ah, says you.” He stepped away from the chair.

  “Uppity bit o’ brass, wot? Meself, I ain’t got much use for a weapon wot talks back.” He kicked the chair, not hard enough to hurt his foot or do it any damage but hard enough to receive some satisfaction from the gesture. “I got me longbow an’ me short sword. Who needs it?” Jon-Tom was staring longingly at the ensorceled blade. “Don’t look so downcast, mate. You don’t ‘ave to be a true ‘ero. ‘Tis sufficient to be an ordinary, everyday, run-o-the-mill one.”

  “I know, Mudge. It’s just that I thought “

  “You thought wot, mate?” Mudge eyed him penetratingly. “That you were somethin’ special? That you were brought to this world for some deep dark purpose instead o’ merely by accident? They say contrition’s good for the soul. Not ‘avin one, I wouldn’t know.”

  “Not having one what? Soul, or contrition?”

  “I wouldn’t mind having this.” Weegee plopped herself down in the chair. Ignoring the sword sticking out of the back, she peered into the beveled mirror atop the dressing table and began to primp fur and whiskers. “It would be lovely in a bedroom and....”

  She broke off as a soft pink glow appeared within the glass.

  “Oh, shit,” said Mudge, “not again.”

  Sure enough, the mirror began to speak, in a slightly less fruity voice than the one which had inhabited the sword.

  “Knoweth all who sitteth before me that I am the One True Mirror. That all who peer into my depths shall seeth themselves as they actually are and not as they may thinketh they be: without prejudice, without flattery, without enhancement.” The mirror was silent, but the pink fluorescence remained.

  “You want it in your bedroom, luv, then you’d better ‘ave a looksee.”

  “Are you sure it’s safe? No,” she said, answering her own question, “of course you’re not sure it’s safe. But the sword didn’t do anything. All right, why not? It’s only a mirror.” She leaned forward.

  The face that stared back at her was her own, but instead of the tatters she wore as a result of her encounters these several days past with pirates and cannibals and difficult circumstances, her reflection was clad in an exquisite body-length suit asparkle with gold and jewels. Her expression and pose in the mirror combined with the clothing to give off an air of dignity and power.

  “I look beautiful,” she whispered in awe. “Truly beautiful.”

  “A true mirror for sure,” said Mudge, smiling at he
r.

  “But I look like a queen. I don’t own any clothing like that.”

  “Not yet,” Jon-Tom murmured. It was a regal reflection indeed.

  She hopped down off the chair and walked into Mudge’s arms. “What does it mean, do you think?”

  He whispered in her ear. “That you’re gonna ‘ave a ton o’ money, or else we’ve got a first-class joker on our ‘ands.”

  “Let me try.” Cautious squirmed onto the chair. The otters and Jon-Tom joined him in peering into the mirror. Pink diamonds danced along the beveled rim, but there was no change in the image visible in the glass. None at all.

  The raccoon waited a moment longer before abandoning the chair. “I am not disappointed, you bet. I am what you see. Worse things to be.”

  “To thine own self be true,” murmured Jon-Tom softly.

  “You next, Mudge.” Weegee pushed him toward the chair.

  “Now wait a minim, luv. Let’s think this through. I ain’t sure I want to see myself as I really am. From wot friends tell me it leaves somethin’ to be desired.”

  “Oh go on, Mudge. It’s only a mirror.”

  “Yeh, sure.” He readied himself. “Just be ready to pick me up if I faint.”

  Carefully he sat in the chair, resting his arms on the wooden ones, and turned to face his reflection. It showed a much older otter in the final stages of dessication. Most of the fur had turned silver and the figure was so thin the bones showed in the shoulders and face. Several whiskers on the left side of the muzzle were missing, spittle dribbled from the same side of the trembling mouth, and the right eye rolled wildly and independent of the left. The clothes were ragged and torn.

  It was a reflection of a life taken to extremes, of one stuffed to bursting with too much liquor, too much rich food, drugs, wenching and a general overindulgence in all things. Despite intimations of incipient senility, there was no mistaking that lecherous expression. It was Mudge.

  Jon-Tom eyed him worriedly as he slid slowly out of the chair. Weegee said nothing but embraced him tightly. He stroked the fur on the back of her neck.

  “There now, luv, no need to get all upset.”