"Now, I told you, guv," Mudge began, only to be
interrupted by a shout.
What stunned him to silence, however, was not the fact
THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
97
of the shout but its origin. It came from the water off to
starboard.
It was repeated. "Ahoy, there! You on the sloop! What's
happenin'!"
"What's happenin'?" Roseroar frowned, tried to see
into the fog. "Jon-Tom, wake up!" The sails continued to
luff against the mainmast.
"Huh? Wash?" Jon-Tom laughed one more time, then
struggled to stand up.
"Ahoy, aboard the sloop!" A new voice this time,
female.
"Wash... whosh that?" He stumbled around the center
cabin and tried to squint into the fog. Neither his eyesight
nor his brain was functioning at optimum efficiency at the
moment.
A second boat materialized out of the mist. It was a low-
slung outboard with a pearlescent fiberglass body. Three ...
no, four people lounged in the vinyl seats. Two couples in
their twenties, all human, all normal size.
"What's happenin', John B.I" asked the young man
standing behind the wheel. He didn't look too steady on
his feet himself. A cooler sat between the front seats, full
of ice and aluminum cans. The cans had names like Coors
and Lone Star on them.
Jon-Tom swayed. He was hallucinating, the next logical
step in his mental disintegration. He leaned over the rail
and tried to focus his remaining consciousness on the funny
cigarette the couple in the front of the boat were passing
back and forth.The other pair were exchanging hits on a
glass pipe.
The big outboard was idling noisily. One girl leaned
over the side to clean her Foster Grants in the ocean. Next
to the beer cooler was a picnic basket. A big open bag of
pretzels sat on top. The twisted, skinny kind that tasted
like pure fried salt. Next to the bag was a two-pound tin of
Planter's Redskin Peanuts, and several brightly colored
tropical fruits.
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Alan Dean Poster
THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
99
He tried to will himself sober. If anything could have
cleared his mind, it should have been the sight of the boat
and its occupants. But the uncontrollable power of his own
spellsinging held true. Despite everything he tried, the
self-declared first mate still stayed drunk. He swallowed
the words on his tongue and tried a second time.
"Who... who are you?"
"I'm Charlie MacReady," said the boat's driver cheeri-
ly, through a cannabis-induced fog of his own. He smiled
broadly, leaned down to speak to his girlfriend. "Dig that
getup that guy's got on. Must've been a helluva party!"
Jon-Tom briefly considered his iridescent lizard-skin
cape, his indigo shut, and the rest of his attire. Subdued
clothing... for Clothahump's world.
The girl in the front was having a tough time with her
sunshades. Maybe she didn't realize that the glasses were
clean and that it was her eyes that needed washing out.
She leaned over again and nearly tumbled into the water.
Her boyfriend grabbed the strap of her bikini top and
pulled hard enough to hold her in the boat. Unfortunately,
it was also hard enough to compress certain sensitive parts
of her anatomy. She whirled to swing at him, missed badly
thanks to the effects of what the foursome had been
smoking all morning. For some unknown reason this
started her giggling uncontrollably.
Jon-Tom wasn't laughing anymore. He was battling his
own sozzled thoughts and magically contaminated blood-
stream.
"Who are you people?"
"I told you." The boat's driver spoke with pot-induced
ponderousness. "MacReady's the name. Charles MacReady.
I am a stockbroker from Manhattan. Merrill Lynching.
You know, the bull?" He rested one hand on the shoulder
of the suddenly contemplative woman seated next to him.
She appeared fascinated by the sheen of her nail polish.
"This is Buffy." He nodded toward the front of the
boat. "The two kids up front are Steve and Mary-Ann.
Steve works in my office. Don't you, Steve?" Steve didn't
reply. He and Mary-Ann were giggling in tandem now.
The driver turned back to Jon-Tom. "Who are you?"
"One hell of a good question," Jon-Tom replied thickly.
He glanced down at his outrageous costume. Is this what
happens when you get the DTs? he wondered. Somehow
he'd always imagined having the DTs would involve
stronger hallucinations than a quartet of happily stoned
vacationers loaded down with pot and pretzels.
"My name... my name..." For one terrible instant
there was a soft, puffy blank in his mind where his name
belonged. The kind of disorientation one encounters in a
cheap house of mirrors at the state fair, where you have to
feel your way through to the exit by putting your hands out
in front of you and pushing through the nothingness of
your own reflections.
Meriweather, he told himself. Jonathan Thomas Meri-
weather. I am a graduate law student from UCLA. The
University of California at Los Angeles. He repeated this
information slowly to the driver of the boat.
"Nice to meet you," said MacReady.
"But you, you, you, where are you? Where are you
from?" Jon-Tom was aware he was half crying, but he
couldn't stop himself. His desperation overwhelmed any
suggestion of self-control.
The song, the song, that seemingly innocuous song so
full of unforeseen consequences. First the boat, then the
storm and his drunkenness, and now ... where in the song
had the sloop John B. been going?
The stockbroker from Manhattan pointed to his right.
"Just out for the afternoon from the Nassau Club Med.
You know, man. The Bahamas? You lost out of Miami or
what?" He jiggled the chain of polyethelene beads that
hung from his neck.
"Wanna come back in with us?"
"It can't be," Jon-Tom whispered dazedly. "It can't be
this easy." The song he'd repeated over and over, what
1OO
Alan Dean Foster
was the phrasing? ' 'Around Nassau Town we did roam... I
wanna go home, I wanna go home... this is the worst
trip, I've ever been on."
"7 wanna go home," Jon-Tom sang in his mind. "Around
Nassau Town. Yes... yes, we'll follow you back! We'll
follow you back." He clung to the rail for dear life, his
eyes locked on the big Evenrude rumbling at the stern of
the ski boat.
"You coming over here or you just going to follow us
in?"
"We'll follow you," Jon-Tom mumbled. "We'll fol-
low." He turned to the helm. "Roseroar, put on all
sail... no, wait." It was still windless. "The engine. I'll
get that engine started and we'll follow them in!" He took
a wild step toward the hatchway, felt himself going back-
>
ward over the rail, tumbling toward a waiting pane of glass
that wasn't there.
An immense paw had hold of him, was pulling him
back on deck. "Watch yourself, sugah," Roseroar told
him quietly. She'd cleared the distance to him from her
position at the wheel in one leap.
Now she stared across the water. "Who are these
strange folk? Ah declare, ah can't make top no bottom of
their words."
"Tell them," Jon-Tom moaned weakly toward the ski
boat, "tell them who you are, tell them where we are!"
But Charles MacReady, stockbroker on vacation, seven
days, six nights, $950 all-inclusive from LaGuardia, not
counting the fact that he expected to get laid tonight, did
not reply. He was staring at the boat where seven feet of
white tigress dressed in leather and brass armor stood on
hind legs staring back at him.
Giggling rose from the floorboards in the front of
the boat. MacReady's girlfriend had progressed from an
intimate examination of her nails to her toes, which she
was regarding now with a Buddha-like glassy stare.
MacReady dazedly flipped the butt of the sansemilla
THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
101
stick over the side as though it had been laced with
cyanide and said clearly, "Holy shit." Then he sat down
hard in the driver's seat and fired up the big outboard.
"No wait," Jon-Tom screamed, "wait!" He tried to
dive over the side, and it took all of Roseroar's consider-
able strength to prevent him from drowning himself. In his
current state he couldn't float, much less swim.
"Easy there, Jon-Tom. What's gotten into y'all?"
He wrenched away from her, tore down the hatchway
into the hold, and fumbled with the diesel. It took three
tries but this time it started up. Then he was running,
crawling back up the stairs and flying for the steering
wheel console. The compass rocked. He stabbed a button.
A gargling came from underneath the ship, hesitated, died.
He jabbed the button again. This time the sound was a
whir, whir.
Mudge raced back from the bow. "Wot the bloody 'ell
is goin' on back 'ere?"
Roseroar stood aside, guarding the railing, and eyed the
otter uncertainly. "There ah people in a boat. We must be
neah some land."
"I 'card. That's bloody marvelous. They goin' to lead
us in?"
"I think they're frightened of something," Roseroar
told him.
Jon-Tom was crying, crying and jabbing away at the
starter. "You don't understand, you don't understand!"
The sound of the ski boat's outboard was fading with
distance. Still the engine refused to turn over.
Then there was a deep growl. Roseroar jumped and
grabbed the rail as the boat began to move.
"Where are they?" Jon-Tom cried, trying to steer and
search the fog at the same time. "Which way did they
go?"
"I do not know, Jon-Tom," said Jalwar helplessly. "I
did not see." He pointed uncertainly into the fog off the
bow. "That way, I think."
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Alan Dean Foster
Jon-Tom increased their speed and the diesel responded
efficiently. They couldn't be far from the town of Nassau.
The foursome from New York had been out for the
afternoon only. Hadn't the stockbroker said so? Besides,
they wore only swim suits and carried little in the way of
supplies. Surely he was near enough to hit the island! And
from Nassau it would be a short flight to the Florida coast.
To home, to Miami, Disneyworld, hotels, and soap operas
on TV in the afternoon. Images shoved purposefully into
the back of his mind sprang back to the fore: home.
He was home.
So crazed was he with hope and joy that he didn't think
what the reaction would be to his arriving in Nassau with
the likes of Mudge and Jalwar and Roseroar in tow. But
none of that mattered. None.
Unintentionally and quite without intending to do so,
he'd spellsung himself home.
VII
He clung desperately to that thought as day gave way to
night. Still no sign of Nassau or any of the Bahamas. No
hint of pleasure boats plying the placid Caribbean. No
lights on shore to guide them in. Only the ever-present fog
and an occasional glimpse of a half-moon glittering on
high, keeping a watchful silver eye on his waning hopes.
He was still at the wheel the next morning. The fog had
fled from the sky only to settle heavily inside his heart.
You could see for miles in every direction. None yielded a
glimpse of a coconut palm, a low-lying islet, or the warm
glass-and-steel face of a Hilton Hotel. Only when the
diesel finally sputtered to a halt, out of fuel, did he sit
away from the helm, exhausted.
Worst of all, he was sober. Desperation and despair had
driven the spellsong-induced drunkenness from his body. It
was sour irony: he had regained the use of his senses when
he no longer had need of them.
Roseroar assumed the wheel again, said nothing. With
the disappearance of the fog had come the return of the
wind. The sails filled.
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Alan Dean Foster
"Wheah shall I set course for, Ion-Tom?" she asked
gently. He didn't reply, stared blankly over the side.
Mudge watched him closely. "Snarken, luv. You know
the way." Roseroar nodded, swung the wheel over.
"What's wrong with him?"
Mudge replied thoughtfully. " 'E believed for a few
minutes last night 'e might 'ave been 'ome, back in 'is
own world. Now, me, I don't believe we went from one
world to another that simple, even if that was a peculiar
boat full of mighty odd-lookin' 'umans. The birds were
sharp enough lookin', though. I'll give 'em that."
Roseroar gave him a look of distaste. " Y' all are disgustin'.
Yo friend is heartsick and all yo can thank of, yo scummy
little degenerate pervert, is intercourse."
"Blow it out your striped arse, you self-righteous bitch!
I'd swear on me mother's 'ead that 'alf an army's done
proper work under that tail."
Roseroar lunged for the otter. A ghost of a voice made
her pause.
"Don't. Please." For the first time in days a familiar
face swung around to face both of them. "It's not worth it.
Not on my behalf."
Roseroar reluctantly returned to her station behind the
wheel. "Blimey, mate," said Mudge softly, "you really
do think we went over into your world, don't you?"
He nodded. "It was in the song. I didn't mean it to
happen that way, but yes, I think we crossed over. And I
was too drunk to do anything about it."
"Maybe we're still in yo world," said Roseroar.
Mudge noticed movement in the water. " 'Ang on. I
think I know 'ow to find out." He headed toward the bow.
Jon-Tom rose, swayed slightly. Roseroar put out a hand
to steady him but he waved her off
with a smile. "Thanks.
I'm okay now. Stone-cold sober."
"Yo drunkenness did come from yo song, then?"
"Something else I didn't plan on. It's worn off. That's
why I don't think we're still in my world. The good wears
THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
105
off along with the bad." His voice fell to a whisper. "I
was home, Roseroar! Home."
"Ah am sorry fo yo, Jon-Tom. Ah really and truly am."
"You've got a big heart, Roseroar. Along with every-
thing else." He smiled at her, then walked toward the front
of the boat. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe there was still a
chance, however faint that seemed now.
The otter was leaning over the side. "How are you
going to find out where we are?" Jon-Tom asked.
Mudge glanced up at him. "That's easy enough, guv'nor.
All you 'ave to do is ask." He turned his face to the water
racing past the prow and shouted, "Hey, you, where are
we?"
Jon-Tom peered over the railing to see the playful,
smooth, gray-backed shapes sliding easily through the
water, hitching a free ride on the boat's bow-wave. One of
them lifted its bottle-nose clear of the surface and squeaked
a reply.
"You're at half past a quarter after." Giggles rose from
around the speaker as the rest of the dolphins vented their
appreciation of the little joke.
Mudge gave Jon-Tom an apologetic look. "Sorry, mate,
but tain't easy gettin' a straight answer out o' this bunch o'
sea-goin' comedians."
"Never mind," Jon-Tom sighed. "The fact that it
answered at all is proof enough of which world we're in."
"Hey:ya," said another of the slim swimmers, "have
you guys heard the one about the squid and the Third
Mistress of Pack Thirty?"
"No." Mudge leaned forward, interested.
The dolphin now speaking sidled effortlessly up to the
side of the speeding sloop. "It seems she..." Jon-Tom
abandoned the ongoing display of oceanic vulgarity and
climbed the central cabin to contemplate the horizon.
No, he wasn't home anymore. Maybe he'd hallucinated
the whole incident. Maybe there'd been no ski boat full of
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Alan Dean Poster
THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
1O7
stoned stockbrokers from New York. Maybe the entire
episode was nothing more than the result of his drunkenness.
Except that Mudge and Roseroar and Jalwar had seen
them also.
The last vestiges of inebriation left him frighteningly
Spellsinger 03 - The Day of the Dissonance Page 12