Spellsinger: A Spellsinger Adventure (Book One)

by Alan Dean Foster

  “Which don’t appear to be much, as far as placin’ you’s concerned. Nothin’ more in the way of skills, is it?”

  “Well …” Another ambition flooded through him. With it came the laughs of his friends and the condemnations and horrified protests of his family. Then they were drowned by a vision of himself with a guitar and by the memories of all the groups, all the performances he’d collected and mimicked in his less intellectual, more emotional moments of introspection. Memories and sounds of Zepplin and Harum, of Deep Purple and Tangerine Dream and Moody Blues and a thousand others. Electric melodies tingled in his fingertips. Logic and reason vanished. Once more good sense and truth clashed within him.

  Only here good sense did not serve. Heart’s desire again took control of him.

  “I play a g … an electric bass. It’s a kind of a stringed instrument. It’s only a hobby. I thought once I might try to make a career out of it, only …”

  “So you’re a musician then!” Consternation vanished as understanding filled the otter. He pushed back his chair, let his feet down on the floor, and stared with new interest at his companion. “A minstrel. I’ll be bloody be-damned. Aye, there might be a way there for you t’ make some coppers, maybe even some silver. You’d be a novelty, anyways. Let me ’ear you sing something.”

  “Right here?” Jon-Tom looked around nervously.

  “Aye. No one’s goin’ to ’ear you anyway. Not between the babble and band.”

  “I don’t know.” Jon-Tom considered. “I need to warm up. And I don’t have my guitar with me.”

  “A pox on your bleedin’ instrument,” growled the otter. “’Ow do you expect t’ act a proper minstrel if you can’t sing on demand, when someone requires it o’ you? Now don’t mind me, mate. Get on with it.” He sat expectantly, looked genuinely intrigued.

  Jon-Tom cleared his throat self-consciously and looked around. No one was paying him the least attention. He took a fortifying swallow from Mudge’s mug and considered. Damn silly, he thought. Oh well, best try an old favorite, and he began “Eleanor Rigby.” Am I one of all the lonely people now? he thought as he voiced the song.

  When he’d finished, he looked anxiously at the otter. Mudge’s expression was fixed.

  “Well?” How was I?”

  Mudge leaned back in his seat, smiled faintly. “Maybe you were right, Jon-Tom. Maybe it ‘twould be better with some instrumental accompaniment. Interestin’ words, I’ll grant you that. I once knew a chap who kept several faces in jars, though ’e didn’t ’ave ’em up by ’is door.”

  Jon-Tom tried not to show his disappointment, though why he should have expected a different reaction from the otter than from previous audiences he couldn’t imagine.

  “I’m really much more of an instrumentalist. As far as voice goes,” he added defensively, “maybe I’m not smooth, but I’m enthusiastic.”

  “That’s so, mate, but I’m not so sure your listeners would be. I’ll try t’ think on what else you might do. But for now, I think maybe it would be a kindness t’ forget about any minstrelin’.”

  “Well, I’m not helpless.” Jon-Tom gestured around them. “I don’t want to keep imposing on you, Mudge. Take this place. I’m not afraid of hard work. There must be hundreds of mugs and platters to wash and floors to be mopped down, tables to be cleaned, drains to be scoured. There’s a helluva lot of work here. I could …”

  Mudge reached across the table and had both paws digging into Jon-Tom’s indigo shirt. He stared up into the other’s surprise and whispered intently.

  “You can’t do that! That’s work for mice and rats. Don’t let anyone ’ear you talk like that, Jon-Tom.” He let go of the silk and sat back in his chair.

  “Come on now,” Jon-Tom protested softly. “Work is work.”

  “Think you that now?” Mudge pointed to his right.

  Two tables away from theirs was a rat about three feet tall. He was dressed in overalls sewn from some heavy, thick material that was badly stained and darkened. Thick gloves covered tiny paws, and knee-high boots rested on the floor as the rodent scrubed at the planking.

  The others nearby completely ignored his presence, dropping bones or other garbage nearby or sometimes onto his back. As Jon-Tom watched, the rodent accidentally stumbled across the leg of a drunken gull hunting a table with perches to accommodate ornithological clients. The big bird cocked a glazed eye at him and snapped once with its beak, more taunting than threatening.

  Stumbling clear, the rat fell backward, tripped over his own feet, and brought his bucket of trash and goo down on himself. It ran down his boots and over the protective overalls. For a moment he lay stunned in the heap of garbage. Then he slowly struggled to his knees and began silently gathering it up again, ignoring but not necessarily oblivious to the catcalls and insults the patrons heaped on him. A thick bone bounced off his neck, and he gathered it up along with the rest of the debris. Soon the watchers grew bored with the momentary diversion and returned to their drinking, eating, and arguing.

  “Only rats and mice do that kind of work?” Jon-Tom inquired. “I used to do something like it all the time. Remember, that’s what confused Clothahump into bringing me here in the first place.”

  “What you do elsewhere you’d best not try ’ere, mate. Any self-respectin’ animal would sooner starve before doin’ that, or go t’ beggin’ like our sticker-hiding friend, the gibbon.”

  “I don’t understand any of this, Mudge.”

  “Don’t try t’, mate. Just roll with the waves, wot? Besides, those types are naturally lazy and dumb. They’d rather lie about and guzzle cheese all day than do any honest work, they would. Spend all their time when not eatin’ in indiscriminate screwing, though you wouldn’t think they’d ’ave enough brains t’ know which end to work with.”

  Jon-Tom was fighting to control his temper. “There’s nothing wrong with doing menial work. It doesn’t make those who do it menial-minded. I …” He sighed, wondered at the hopelessness of it all. “I guess I just thought things would be different here, as far as that kind of thing goes. It’s my fault. I was imagining a world that doesn’t exist.”

  Mudge laughed. “Little while back I recall you insistin’ that this one didn’t exist.”

  “Oh, it exists all right.” His fists rubbed angrily on the table as he watched the subservient rat suddenly go down on his chest. A turtle with a disposition considerably less refined than Clothahump’s had stuck out a stubby leg and tripped the unfortunate rodent. Once more the laboriously gathered garbage went flying while a new burst of merriment flared from the onlookers.

  “Why discrimination like that here?” Jon-Tom muttered. “Why here too?”

  “Discrimination?” Mudge seemed confused. “Nobody discriminates against ’em. That’s all they’re good for. Can’t argue with natural law, mate.”

  Jon-Tom had expected more from Mudge, though he’d no real reason to. From what he’d already seen, the otter was no worse than the average inhabitant of this stinking, backward nonparadise.

  There were a number of humans scattered throughout the restaurant. None came near approaching Jon-Tom in height. Nearby a single older gentleman was drinking and playing cards with a spider monkey dressed in black shot through with silver thread. They paired off against a larger simian Jon-Tom couldn’t identify and a three-foot-tall pocket gopher wearing a crimson jumpsuit and the darkest sunglasses Jon-Tom had ever seen.

  No doubt they were as prejudiced and bigoted as the others. And where did he come off setting himself up as arbiter of another world’s morals?

  “There ain’t nothin’ you can do about it, mate. Why would anyone want t’ change things? Cor now, moppin’ and sweepin’ and such are out, unless you want t’ lose all respect due a regular citizen. Politickin’ you’re also qualified for, but that o’ course ranks even lower than janitorial-type drudgeryin’. I’d hope you won’t ’ave t’ fall back on your abilities for minstrelin’.” His tone changed to one of hope mixed with
curiosity.

  “Now ol’ Clothahump, ’e was bloody well sure you were some sort of sorcerer, ’e was. You sure you can’t work no magic? I ’eard you questioning ’is wizard-wart’s own special words.”

  “That was just curiosity, Mudge. Some of the words were familiar. But not in the way he used them. Even you did the business with the dancing pins. Does everyone practice magic around here?”

  “Oh, everyone practices, all right.” Mudge swilled down a snootful of black brew. “But few get good enough at it to do much more than a trick or two. Pins are my limit, I’m afraid. Wish to ’ell I knew ’is gold spell.” His gaze suddenly moved left and he grinned broadly.

  “Course now, when the situation arises I ain’t too bad at certain forms o’ levitation.” His right hand moved with the speed of which only otters are capable.

  How the saucily dressed and heavily made up chipmunk managed to keep from dumping the contents of the six tankards she was maneuvering through the crowd was a bit of magic in itself, Jon-Tom thought as he ducked to avoid the few flying suds.

  She turned an outraged look on the innocent-seeming Mudge. “You keep your hands to yourself, you shit-eating son of a mud worm! Next time you’ll get one of these up your furry backside!” She threatened him with a tankard.

  “Now Lily,” Mudge protested, “’aven’t you always told me you’re always ’untin’ for a way t’ move up in the world?”

  She started to swing an armful of liquor at him and he cowered away in mock fear, covering his face with his paws and still smiling. Then she thought better of wasting the brew. Turning from their table she marched away, elbowing a path through the crowd. Her tail switched prettily from side to side, the short dress barely reaching from waist to knee. It was gold with a gray lining that neatly set off her own attractive russet and black and white striping.

  “What did I tell you, mate?” Mudge grinned over his mug at Jon-Tom.

  He tried to smile back, aware that the otter was trying to break the glum mood into which Jon-Tom had fallen. So he forced himself to continue the joke.

  “Mighty short levitation, Mudge. I don’t see how it does her any good.”

  “Who said anything about her?” The otter jabbed himself in the chest with a thumb. “It’s me the levitatin’ benefits!” He clasped both furry arms around his chest and roared at his own humor, threatening to upset table and self.

  Wooden shades were rolled down to cover the two windows, and someone dimmed the oil lamps. Jon-Tom started to rise, felt a restraining paw on his wrist.

  “Nay, guv, ’tis nothing t’ be concerned about.” His eyes were sparkling. “Quite the contrary. Did I not promise you some entertainment?” He pointed to the circular serving counter and up.

  What looked like an upside-down tree was slowly descending from a gap in the center of the peaked ceiling. It was green with fresh growth, only the foilage had been tacked on and doubtless was periodically renewed. The still unseen band segued into an entirely new tune. The percussionist was doing most of the work now, Jon-Tom noted. The beat was heavy, slow, and sensuous.

  The yelling and shouting that filled the establishment changed also. Barely organized chaos faded to a murmur of anticipation spotted with occasional roars of comment, usually lewd in nature.

  Mudge had shifted his seat, now sat close to Jon-Tom. His eyes were on the fake tree as he elbowed his companion repeatedly in the ribs.

  “Eyes at the alert now, mate. There’s not a fairer nor more supple sight in all Lynchbany.”

  An animal appeared at the dark opening in the ceiling, prompting a bellow from the crowd. It vanished, then teasingly reappeared. It was slight, slim, and made its way very slowly from the hidden chamber above down into the branches of the ersatz conifer. About three and a half feet in length, it displayed another half foot of active tail and was completely, almost blindingly covered in snow-white fur save for a few inches of black at the tip of the tail.

  Its costume, if such so lithe a wrapping could be called, consisted of many layers of black veils of some chiffonlike material through which the brilliant white fur showed faintly. Its face was streaked with red painted on in intricate curlicues and patterns that ran from face and snout down onto shoulders, chest, and back before vanishing beneath the airy folds. A turban of matching black was studded with jewels. The final touch, Jon-Tom noted with fascination, were long false eyelashes.

  So absorbing was this glittering mammalian vision that for several moments identification escaped him. That slim form and muscular torso could only belong to some member of the weasel family. When the apparition smiled and displayed tiny sharp teeth he was certain of it. This was an ermine, still in full winter-white coat. That confirmed the time of year he’d arrived, though he hadn’t thought to ask anyone. About the creature’s femininity he had no doubt whatsoever.

  A hush of interspecies expectancy had settled over the crowd. All attention was focused overhead as the ermine ecdysiast began to toy with the clasps securing one veil. She unsnapped one, then its companion. Cries of appreciation started to rise from the patrons, an amazing assortment of hoots, whistles, squeaks, yowls, and barks. She began to uncoil the first veil with snakelike motions.

  Jon-Tom had never had occasion to imagine an animal executing anything as erotic as a striptease. After all, beneath any clothing lay another layer of solid fur and not the bare flesh of a human.

  But eroticism has little to do with nudity, as he soon discovered. It was the movement of the creature, a supple twisting and turning that no human female could possibly match, that was stimulating. He found himself thoroughly engrossed by the mechanics of the dance alone.

  To rising cries of appreciation from the crowd one veil followed another. The cool indifference Jon-Tom had intended to affect had long since given way to a distinct tingling. He was no more immune to beauty than any other animal. The ermine executed a series of movements beyond the grasp of the most talented double-jointed human, and did so with the grace and demeanor of a countess.

  There was also the manner in which she oozed around the branches and leaves of the tree, caressing them with hands and body in a way only a chunk of cold granite could have ignored. The room was heavy with musk now, the suggestiveness of motion and gesture affecting every male within sight.

  The last veil dropped free, floated featherlike to the floor. The music was moving almost as fast as the performer. That white-furred derrière had become a gravity-defying metronome, a passionate pendulum sometimes concealed, sometimes revealed by the position of the twitching tail, all vibrating in time to the music.

  The music rose to a climax as the ermine, hanging by her arms from the lowermost branches, executed an absolutely impossible series of movements which incidentally revealed to Jon-Tom the reason for the circular, central nature of the main serving counter. It served now as fortress wall behind which the heavily armed cooks and bartenders were able to fend off the hysterical advances of the overheated patrons.

  One long-eared rabbit which Jon-Tom supposed to be a jack actually managed to grab a handful of black-tipped tail which was coyly but firmly pulled out of reach. A burly bobcat dumped the rabbit back among the surging patrons as the ermine blew a last kiss to her audience. Then she slithered back through branches and leaves to disappear inside the ceiling with a last fluid bump and grind.

  Shades and tree were promptly rolled up. Conversation resumed and normality returned to the restaurant. Waitresses and waiters continued to wend their way through the crowd like oxygen in the bloodstream.

  “D’you see now wot I mean, mate?” Mudge said with the contentment of one who’d just cashed a very large check, “when I say that there’s no one who—” He stopped, stared strangely across the table.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Jon-Tom uncomfortably.

  “’Ave me for breakfast,” was the startled reply, “if you ain’t blushin’! You ’umans …”

  “Bull,” muttered Jon-Tom, turning angrily away.

>   “Nope.” The otter leaned over the table, peering closely at Jon-Tom despite his attempts to keep his face concealed. “Blimey but it’s true … you’re as red as a baboon’s behind, lad.” He nodded upward, toward the peak of the roof. “’Ave you ne’er seen such a performance before, then?”

  “Of course I have.” He turned forcefully back to face his guardian, rocked a little unsteadily. It seeped into his brain that he might have become a little bit tipsy. How much of that black booze had he downed?

  “That is, I have … on film.”

  “What be that?”

  “A magic apparition,” Jon-Tom explained facilely.

  “Well if you’ve gazed upon such, though not, I dare to say,” and he gazed admiringly ceilingward, “of such elegance and skill, then why the red face?”

  “It’s just that,” he searched for the right words to explain his confusion, “I shouldn’t find the actions of …” How could he say, “another animal” without offending his companion? Desperately he hunted for an alternate explanation.

  “I’ve never seen anything done with quite that … well, with quite that degree of perverse dexterity.”

  “Ah, I understand now. Though perverse I wouldn’t call it. Crikey, but that was a thing of great beauty.”

  “If you say so, I guess it was.” Jon-Tom was grateful for the out.

  “Aye.” Mudge growled softly and smiled. “And if I could once get my paws on that supple little mother-dear, I’d show ’er a thing of beauty.”

  The thick, warm atmosphere of the restaurant had combined with the rich food and drink to make Jon-Tom decidedly woozy. He was determined not to pass out. Mudge already did not think much of him, and Clothahump’s warnings or no, he wasn’t ready to bet that the otter would stay with him if he made a total ass of himself.

  Determinedly he shoved the mug away, rose, and glanced around.

  “What be you searchin’ for now, mate?”

  “Some of my own kind.” His eyes scanned the crowd for the sight of bare flesh.