The Time Of The Transferance

by Alan Dean Foster

  Jon-Tom had never felt better in his life. Never played better either, he reflected happily. He bounced and pranced and leaped about the room, even managing an exuberant aerial split h la Pete Townshend. And when he concluded, the sweat pouring from his face and beneath his arms, the breath coming in long sweet sucks, it still was not silent in the workshop. Couvier Coulb was on his feet, applauding mightily.

  “Such depth of feeling! Such insight and enthusiasm. Such wanton expression of personal karma.”

  “Say what?” Jon-Tom straightened.

  “What do you call it?”

  “A song for my lady love, who I wish was here to share this moment with me. It’s called “The Lemon Song,” by a quiet bunch of good-natured fellows who named themselves Led Zepplin. Very refined.”

  The kinkajou stored this information, then turned and walked toward the back of the workshop. “Come, young man. I have something else to show you.” The twinkle was back in his eyes.

  “Please, before I forget, let me pay you. My pack is out in our room.”

  “No money. You saved my life. Don’t insult me by offering me money. And you have gifted me with this wonderfully sensitive music of yours as well.” He grabbed Jon-Tom’s hand and pulled him along.

  The back wall was filled by a filing cabinet that ran from floor to ceiling. A rolling ladder provided access to the top drawers. Coulb climbed a few steps, halted to trace minuscule labels with one long finger, then opened one of the files. Jon-Tom could see that it was filled from side to side with five-inch-tall bottles of colored glass. They looked a lot like old-fashioned milk bottles except that their stoppers were made of some odoriferous golden-hued resin. The kinkajou removed one bottle and showed it to his young guest.

  “The stopper is pure frankincense. I buy it from a trader who visits the Mews once a year from the desert lands. It is the only substance that seals.”

  The bottle appeared to be empty. Jon-Tom wasn’t close enough to read the stick-on label. He gestured at the filing cabinet. “What is all this?”

  “Why, my music collection, of course. I am a maker of instruments. I can repair or design devices that will produce sounds imagined but not yet heard. I can play many of them passing well. But I cannot compose. I cannot create. So when I am tired or bored I go to my collection.” He pointed toward the now empty gneechee collector.

  “The music our little friends produce emerges through the tiny holes in the collector plate. When I am in the mood I place another filter atop it. This filter shrinks down to a tube which I then insert into one of these bottles. Thus do I collect music. Much of it I do not recognize, but that does not keep me from enjoying it. I have become something of an expert on the music of other worlds and dimensions. The gneechees move freely among many. Listen.” He pulled the stopper.

  The sound of a symphony orchestra again filled the workshop. Brass rumbled and strings queried. As Coulb began to close the stopper the music reversed itself, playing backward as it was drawn back into the bottle by some unimaginable suction.

  “I have been able, by dint of hard work and much study, to identify music and composers.” He squinted at the label. “That was part of the second movement of the Fourteenth Symphony by a gneechee who called himself Beethoven.”

  Jon-Tom could hardly breathe. “He wrote only nine symphonies.”

  “While he was alive, yes.” Coulb wagged a finger at his guest. “In the gneechee form we all eventually come to inhabit he has continued to compose. Originally from your world, it seems. Let’s see what else I have from the same plane.” He chose another bottle and cracked the stopper.

  An oceanic orchestral surge swamped Jon-Tom’s senses. Coulb let him listen a little longer this time, until the last note of the overwhelming crescendo had receded into the far reaches of time and space. It continued to echo in Jon-Tom’s brain.

  The kinkajou checked his label. “This one must have been an interesting fellow. It took three bottles to hold all of this composition. Another of your symphonies, this one the Twelfth, by a Gustav Mahler.” He climbed to the top row of drawers, examined the contents of another. “Here is one of my favorites: Prist’in’ikie’s Tanglemorf for Gluzko and Eelmack.”

  The sounds that now assailed Jon-Tom’s ears were utterly alien. Atonal without being disorganized, dissonant without being harsh, and extremely complex.

  “I don’t know that composer.”

  “Doesn’t surprise me, young man. I’m not sure I know the dimension. Gneechees do get around.”

  “You’ve heard the kind of music I play. The Beethoven and the Mahler were wonderful but—don’t you maybe have something a little lighter from my neck of the woods?”

  “Lighter? Like your own music, you mean?” Jon-Tom nodded. Coulb descended the ladder, opened another new drawer and chose a bottle. The glass was a rich, dark purple.

  It contained sounds that were as familiar as they were new and unmistakable. Only one man had ever been able to make such sounds with an electric guitar. It was full of raw, disciplined power.

  “Let me guess,” Jon-Tom whispered. “Jimi Hendrix?”

  “Yes.” Coulb peered through his thick glasses at the label. “From the Snuff an’ Stuff double album. Bored yet?”

  “I don’t think new music could ever bore me, sir. I even liked that Pristinkeewinkie stuff.” He stared silently at the cabinet. It must hold thousands of songs and symphonies and other posthumous unheard compositions by hundreds of long-deceased musicians.

  “Call me Couvier. We have a lot to listen to.”

  The house shook all that day and on into the night as Coulb played for Jon-Tom pieces of Bartok’s opera, A Modern Salammbo, selections from Wagner’s second Ring cycle, and most of a heartrending album by Jim Morrison.

  And when kinkajou and man fell asleep, it was to the haunting strains of Janis Joplin’s “Texas Eulogy.”

  Both woke with the sun. Jon-Tom thanked the old kinkajou profusely. Coulb shrugged it off. “Any time you feel the need to refresh your soul with new music, come and visit. The enjoyment ‘one gains from listening is doubled when shared.”

  “If I could get back home and then return here with a good cassette recorder and a crateful of blank tape I could set the music world on its ear forever.”

  “Ah, but you can’t hear anything if you’re standing on your ear.” Coulb laughed softly. “Is there anything else I can do for you, Jon-Tom?” He blinked sleepily despite his recent rest. The sun was rising higher outside and the nocturnal craftsman would be wanting to retire, his guest knew.

  “Just one thing. Can you recommend someone to guide us safely back to Chejiji? Preferably by a roundabout route? We had a minor altercation with some locals on our way here and I’d rather not have to deal with them again.”

  “Ah, the ogres. Yes, we can find someone to escort you around their territory. I wish you could stay longer. I have so much music to share with you.”

  “I’ll be back, I promise. I’ve got to come back here with a tape recorder.”

  “I could loan you some bottles.”

  “I’d feel safer with a recorder. It won’t break as easily if I fall on it.” He grinned ruefully.

  Together they exited the workshop. “What will you do once you get back to Chejiji?”

  “Try to charter a boat to take my friends and I back to a certain section of the eastern Glittergeist. We found what I think is a permanent gate between our worlds. If it’s still there I’m going back for that recorder—and other things.”

  “Then I hope I have the pleasure of seeing you again. And hearing you play.” Man and kinkajou shook hands.

  True to his word Coulb had Amalm locate someone to lead them safely through the Mews. There Weegee suggested they look up Teyva before bothering with an uncertain ship and unreliable crew.

  They located the flying stallion in an aerial stable on the far side of town. He was delighted to see them again. With his fear of flying permanently cured, he readily agreed to carry t
hem back to the eastern swamplands. Nor did he have to strain to transport them alone. Having won a substantial amount at cards, he called in his debts among his friends. So Jon-Tom and his companions each had their own mount.

  From the air most forest looks alike, but eventually Mudge’s sharp eyes spotted a certain tree, and from the tree they managed to locate the rocky ledge and the subterranean orifice it concealed. They landed, and while the flying horses chatted of alfalfa wine and cloud dancing Jon-Tom made his final preparations.

  He was taking his duar and ramwood staff, neither of which should draw any unusual attention. His iridescent lizard-skin cape he would leave behind. As for the rest of his unusual clothing he had concocted various explanations with which to satisfy the curious until he could purchase sneakers, jeans and a shirt to match. It shouldn’t take long to convert Clothahump’s gold coins into ready cash at any pawn shop.

  Cautious was regarding him fondly. “You be careful for sure now.”

  “You too. What are you going to do now?”

  “I think maybe my hometown friends still pretty mad at me, you bet. So I think I go back with your otter fella and see what this Bellwood country is like.”

  .”We’ll be waiting for your return.” Was Weegee crying? “I’ll have a talk with your lady Talea, female to female, and explain what you’re about. How will you make it home when you come back this way, Jon-Tom? You don’t know how long you’re going to be and Teyva can’t wait here forever.”

  “I don’t expect him to wait at all. Mudge and I have traveled a fair portion of the world. I’m not worried about getting home from here.” He took a last look around, checked to make sure he had several torches handy. “I guess that’s everything. Teyva and his friends will fly you back to the Bell woods and....”

  A large furry mass struck him square in the chest. He staggered backward with Mudge clinging to him. The otter was sobbing uncontrollably.

  “You ain’t comin’ back!” Black nose and whiskers were inches from his face and tears were pouring down fuzzy cheeks. “I know you ain’t. Once you get back to your own world through that bloody ‘ole in the ground you’ll be back in familiar surroudin’s, back among your own kind, an’ you’ll forget all about us. About poor ol’ Mudge, an’ Weegee, and that senile ‘ardshell Clothahump who needs you to look after ‘im in ‘is old age, and even about Talea. You’ll get back to where everythin’s comfortable an’ safe an’ relaxin’ an’ you won’t be comin’ back ‘ere.” He grabbed the vee of Jon-Tom’s indigo shirt and shook him.

  “Are you listenin’ to me, you ugly, ignorant, naive bald-faced monkey? Wot am I goin’ to do if I never see you again?”

  “Take it easy, Mudge.” Feeling a little teary-eyed himself, Jon-Tpm disengaged the otter’s fingers from his shirt. “I wouldn’t run out permanent on my best friend, even if he is a liar, a cheat, a thief, a drunk and an incorrigible wencher.”

  Mudge wiped at his eyes and nose. “It does me ‘eart good to ‘ear you talk like that, mate.” He stepped back. “Maybe you will come back, but I ain’t goin’ to ‘old me breath. I’ve seen wot ‘appens to folks when they gets back to where they belong. I sure as ‘ell ain’t goin’ to take any bets on you retumin’.”

  “If for some reason I don’t, I don’t want you lying around moping and moaning about it all the time.”

  “Wot, me?” The otter forced a cheery smile. “Not a bleedin’ chance!”

  Jon-Tom looked at the entrance to the cave. “We had ourselves an interesting time, didn’t we? Set some evil back on its heels, met some special folks, spread some goodwill and generally shook up the status quo. No reason for regrets.’’ He dropped to his knees and lit the first torch, crawled toward the opening beneath the ledge.

  “I’ll be back, you’ll see. Tell Talea not to fret. I’ll be coming for her.”

  “Sure you will, mate.” Mudge stood next to Weegee. Cautious waved farewell along with the otters while Teyva pawed the earth. The only thing absent from Mudge’s goodbyes was a feeling of conviction.

  Jon-Tom stumbled down the familiar tunnel until he could stand. Shouldering his backpack he held the torch close to the floor, following the damp footprints he and his friends had left on their previous subterranean excursion as well as those of the pirates who had pursued them. Within an hour he was following the crumbling wire back to the cleft in the rocks that led to his-own world.

  Halfway through the narrow passage he extinguished his torch. Light and voices reached him from the other side. He was able to use the distant glow to guide him the rest of the way through the defile.

  Soon after he emerged, a voice yelled at him.

  “Hey, you there!” He blinked as his eyes received the full force of a multicell flashlight, put up a hand to shield them as he tried to locate the speaker.

  “What is it?”

  The light was lowered along with the voice. “Don’t lag back there. This cave’s full of dangerous dropoffs and unexplored dead ends. We ain’t lost anybody yet and I don’t want to start today.”

  “Sorry.” As his eyes adjusted he found a dozen people staring at him. A couple of families, some young couples, one or two younger people traveling on their own. One shouldered a backpack as grungy as his own.

  The guide resumed his well-worn spiel. “Now over here, folks, we have a formation called the bashful elephant.”

  The faces turned away. Children oohed and aahed. No one questioned Jon-Tom’s sudden appearance. Those in the front of the guided party assumed Jon-Tom had been in the back, and those in the back assumed he’d entered with the guide. He simply fell in step with the tour and followed it back out into the bright warm sunshine of a Texas afternoon. There was the old building where he and his companions had battled Kamaulk’s pirates and then drug runners, behind him the stone entrance to the cavern below, at the end of the dirt road the sign identifying this as the location of the Cave-With-No-Name, and off in the distance the highway where a passing eighteen-wheeler had startled his friends. South of the highway lay San Antonio. Twelve hundred odd miles to the west was the megalopolis of Los Angeles, his home.

  He turned to watch the old guide latch the gates which sealed the cave entry. Not too many yards below lay a small twist in space-time. Through that inexplicable, tenuous passage could be found a land where otters talked and a certain turtle practiced at sorcery, where he had battled armies of intelligent insects, ferocious ferrets and parrot pirates.

  As Mudge would say, it was bloody unreal.

  The tourists were filing back into their cars. Jon-Tom made several hopeful inquiries before one of the young couples agreed to give him a lift into San Antonio. Comfortably ensconced in the back seat of their Volvo he was removing his backpack when he happened to notice the elaborate digital clock set in the dash. In addition to the time of day it also provided full date information.

  He knew he’d been gone more than a year, but it was one thing to view time in the abstract, quite something else to see it solid and irrefutable in the form of cool blue LED letters and numbers. How would his parents react when he turned up after a silence of more than a year? Fortunately he wasn’t one of those clinging absentee college students who called in once a week. They were used to long silences from their distant, hard studying son. But a year?

  What was his counselor at UCLA going to say? And his friends, and semi-regular dates like Suzanne and Mariel?

  They and everyone else were going to have to buy the story he’d carefully worked out.

  A unique opportunity had arisen (and that part of it was certainly no lie, he told himself) for him to go to work for the government. When the inevitable question arose as to what sort of work that entailed, he was going to smile knowingly and explain that he wasn’t at liberty to go into details just now. Then his parents and friends and everyone else would (hopefully) nod knowingly in turn and let the matter drop.

  It wouldn’t go over as well with the university administration. There would be classes abruptly
abandoned he would have to make up, professors to mollify. He was confident, though, that he could get his life back on track.

  The Volvo had turned out onto the highway, heading southeast toward the interstate. Trucks and cars zipped past, belching fumes that reminded him of the swamplands. At first he thought there was a funny smell in the air. Then he realized it was the air itself. There were no industries, no internal combustion engines in the other world. The air there, if not the inhabitants, was pure.

  Of course he was going back. Talea, the love of his life, was back there. The love of his life in that world, anyway. What was Mariel doing these days? And Suzanne? What would they think of his exotic gone-to-work-for-some-secret-government-agency story? Would it score points for him?

  The young wife turned the radio to the local rock station and the Volvo was filled with the mellifluous sounds of a Ronald McDonald clone hawking the opening of three new San Antonio area burger Xanadus. Ads for Po Folks, underarm deodorant and used-cars-se-habla-espanol followed. The Cowboys were on their way to the playoffs again. Nothing had changed since he’d been gone.

  Nothing much at all.

  -A Great Deal Later-

  The giant came trudging up the river road. He was impossibly tall and gaunt. A scraggly seaweed-like growth clung to his face and there was a wild gleam in his eyes.

  The observer of this approaching apparition did not panic, did not flee. She stood her ground.

  The giant saw her. Across his back was slung a thick wooden staff, knobbed at one end. Tied to and around it were a number of bulging sacks. Perhaps he was a pedlar, the observer thought.

  “Hello there.” The giant did not have a threatening voice. He sounded tired. “What have we here?”

  By way of reply the observer darted forward and sank her teeth into the giant’s leg midway between knee and ankle. Letting out a yelp of pain, he began hopping about on one leg, trying to balance his precarious load as he attempted to shake his attacker free. The third kick of that long limb sent her sprawling.