"What the hell bit you?"
Mudge was trying to inspect his backside. "SometmV
sure as 'ell did. 'Ere, Folly, be a good girl and see if I'm
bleedin'?" He turned to her and bent slightly.
She examined the area dominated by the short, stubby
tail and protected by leather shorts. "I don't see anything."
" 'Ave a close look."
"You fuzzy pervert." She gave him a look of disgust as
she moved away.
"No, really. Not that I deny the accusation, luv, but
somethin' took a chunk out o' me backside for sure,"
"Liar! What would I do with a chunk of you?"
The voice was high but firm and came from the vicinity
of the flowerbed. Jon-Tom crawled over for a close look,
searching for the source of the denial.
Tiny hands parted the stalks, which were as yellow as
the thick-petaled flowers, and he found himself staring at
something small, winged, feminine, and drastically
overweight.
"I'll be damned," he murmured. "A fat fairy."
"Watch your mouth, buster," she said as she sort of
lumbered out lightly until she was standing on a broken
log. The log was brown with red longitudinal stripes
running through the bark. "I know I've got a small
personal problem, and I don't need some big-mouthed
human reminding me of the fact."
"Sorry." Jon-Tom tried to sound contrite. "You are a
fairy, aren't you? One of the enchanted folk?"
"Nah," she snapped back, "I'm a stevedore from
Snarken."
Jon-Tom studied her closely. Her clothing resembled
wisps of spun gossamer lavender candy. A miniature tiara
gleamed on her head. Long hair trailed below her waist.
The tiara had been knocked askew and covered one eye.
She grunted as she struggled to straighten it. In her right
hand she clutched a tiny gold wand. Her wings were
shards of cellophane mottled with thin red stripes.
"We were told," Folly said breathlessly, "that you
could help us."
"Now, why would I want to do that? We've got enough
problems of our own." She stared at Jon-Tom. "That's a
nice duar. You a musician, bright boy?"
"'e's a spellsinger, and a right powerful one, too,"
Mudge informed her. "Come all the way from across the
Glittergeist to fetch back medicine for a sick sorcerer."
"He's a right powerful fool," she snapped. She sat
down heavily on the log, her legs spread wide in a most
casual and unladylike manner. Jon-Tom estimated her to
be about four inches high and almost as wide.
"I'm called Jon-Tom." He introduced his companions.
An uneasy silence ensued and he finally asked, "What's
your name?"
"None of your business."
"Come on," he said coaxingly. "Whether you help us
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Alan Dean Foster
or not is up to you, but can't we at least be polite to one
another?"
"What's this? A polite human? That doesn't make any
sense, bald-body." She shrugged. "What the hell. My
name's Grelgen. Want to make something of it?"
"Uh, no." Jon-Tom decided he was going to have to
tread very carefully with this pint-size package of enchanted
belligerence.
"Smart answer. You got anything to eat?"
Jalwar started to rummage through his pack. "I think
we have some snake jerky, and there are a few hard rolls."
"Ptui!" She spat to her right. "I mean real food. Fruit
tarts, cream cups, nectar custard, whipped honey rolls."
Jon-Tom said carefully, "I think I am beginning to see
what your problem is."
"Oh, you are, are you, fungus-foot? You think every-
thing's cut and dried, don't you? It's all so obvious to
you." She was pacing now, back and forth atop the log,
waving her tiny hands to punctuate her words.
"Say, you can't fly, can you?"
She turned to face him. "Of course I can fly, dumbutt."
She wiggled her diaphanous wings. "What do you think
these are for? Air-conditioning?"
"All right, then let's see you fly. Come on, fly."
"Feh! You'd think I didn't have anything better to do
than put on a show for a bunch of pituitary freaks."
"You can't fly!" Jon-Tom said triumphantly. "That's
your big problem. You've gotten so..."
"Watch it, jack," she said wamingly.
"... so healthy that you can't lift off anymore. I wouldn't
think it would make a difference. A bumblebee's too heavy
for flight, but it manages, and without enchantment."
"I'm a fairy, one of the enchanted folk," Grelgen
informed him, speaking as one would to an idiot child.
"Not a bumblebee. There are structural, aerodynamic, and
metabolic differences you wouldn't understand. As for
problems, you're the ones who are stuck with the biggie."
THE DAT OF THK DISSONANCE
187
She stabbed the wand at Mudge. "That turkey tried to
assassinate me!"
Mudge gaped in surprise. "Wot, me? I did nothin* o'
the kind, your shortness."
"You sat on me, rat-breath."
"Like 'ell I did! You crawled underneath me. Anyways,
'ow was I supposed to see you or anything else under all
them flowers?"
Grelgen crossed her arm. "I was sitting there minding
my own business, having a little afternoon snack of nectar
and pollen, and you deliberately dropped your rat-butt
right on top of me."
"You expect me to inspect every patch o' ground I sit
down on?"
"In our lands, yes."
"We didn't know it were your lands." Mudge was fast
losing patience with this infinitesimal harridan.
"Ah-/ia! So, a casual assassin. The worst kind." She
put two fingers to her lips and let out a sharp, piercing
whistle. Jon-Tom listened admiringly. The sound was loud
enough to attract an empty cab from two blocks down a
Manhattan street.
What it did attract, from beneath mushrooms and flow-
ers, from behind moss beds and tree roots, was a swarm of
enchanted folk, several hundred of them. A few carried
wands resembling Grelgen's, but most hefted miniature
bows and arrows, crossbows, and spears. Jon-Tom put a
hand out to restrain Roseroar from picking up her swords,
even though the tigress weighed more than all the enchanted
folk combined.
"Magic," he whispered warningly.
Roseroar yielded, but not to his admonition. "Magic or
no, the tips of then: weapons are moistened. I suspect
poison. An ungallant way to fight."
"I guess if you're four inches tall you have to use every
advantage you can think of."
Jalwar moved close, whispered to him. "Move carefully
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Alan Dean Poster
THE DAY or THE DISSONANCE
189
here, spellsinger, or we may vanish in an arrogant conjura-
tion. These folk have a deserved reputation for powerful
magic."
"That's how I figure it," he replied. "Maybe they're
not all as obnoxious or combative as our friend
there."
"What's that, what did you say?"
"I said," he told Grelgen, "that it's nice of you to
invite us to meet all your friends and relatives."
"When one of us is threatened, buster, all spring to the
rescue."
Jon-Tom noted that none of the fairies surrounding them
were in any condition to fly. Every one of them waddled
about with obvious difficulty, and the slimmest was a
candidate for the enchanted branch of Weight Watchers.
"You're our prisoners," she finished.
"I see," said Mudge. "And wot if we decide not to be
your prisoners?"
"Then you'll be dead," she assured him unpleasantly.
. Mudge studied the array of glistening little weapons.
" 'Ospitable folk, wot?"
"Watch 'em," said Grelgen to her relations. She turned
and sauntered to the end of the branch, hopped off, and
landed with a wheeze in the grass below. There she entered
into a mumbling conversation with several other wand-
bearers. Most of them were clad only in rags and tatters.
Mudge would have to sit on someone of importance,
thought Jon-Tom angrily. The conference broke up mo-
ments later.
"This way," said one of the other armed fairies, gestur-
ing upstream. Surrounded by miniuscule guards, they were
marched off up the creek.
"You sure you didn't see her, Mudge?" Jon-Tom asked
the otter.
"Would I 'ave been stupid enough to sit on 'er if I 'ad,
mate? Use your 'ead. It were those bloody flowers."
"You weren't looking, then," Jon-Tom said accusingly.
"So I weren't lookin*. Should I 'ave been lookin'?"
"No, I guess not. It's nobody's fault."
"Pity I didn't flatten 'er," the otter murmured, careful
to keep his voice down.
"It might not have mattered, sir," Jalwar murmured.
"The fairy folk are known for their resilience."
"I can see that," said Mudge, studying their obese
escort. "The one with the mouth looks like she could
bounce."
"Be quiet," said Jon-Tom. "We're in enough trouble
already. She'll hear you."
"Damned if I care if she does, guv." The otter had his
hands shoved in his pockets and kicked disgustedly at
pebbles as they walked along the side of the creek. "If she
ain't got common sense to see that—"
A paw the size of his head covered his mouth and,
incidently, most of his face. "Watch yo mouth, ottah,"
Roseroar told him. "Yo heard Jon-Tom. Let's not irritate
these enchanted folk any moah than we already have."
"I'd like to irritate 'em," said the otter when she'd
removed her paw. But his voice had become a whisper.
The stream narrowed. Canyon walls closed in tight
around the marchers, all but shutting out the sun. Trees
and bushes grew into one another, forming a dense,
hard-to-penetrate tangle. The captives had to fight their
way through the thickening undergrowth.
Dusk brought them to the outskirts of the enchanted
folk's village. In appearance it was anything but enchanted.
Tiny huts and homes were scattered around a natural
amphitheater. Evidence of disrepair and neglect abounded.
Some of the buildings were falling down, and even those
cut into massive tree roots had piles of trash mounded up
against the doorways. To Jon-Tom all this was clear proof
of a loss of pride among the inhabitants.
Tiny lights flickered to life behind many of the miniature
windows, and smoke started to curl from minute chim-
neys. Off to one side of the community a circular area was
surrounded by a stone wall pierced by foot-high archways.
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Alan Dean Poster
THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
191
The six-inch high wall ended at both ends against a sheer
cliff of gray granite.
The four captives filled this arena. Once they were
inside the insignificant walls, Grelgen and two other fairies
stood within the archways waving their wands and murmuring
importantly. When the invocation was finished, she stepped
back and retreated toward the village with her cronies.
Folly took a step toward the minuscule barrier and tried
to step over. She gasped and drew back as if bitten,
holding her right hand.
"What is it?" Jon-Tom asked anxiously.
"It's hot. The air's hot."
Experimentally, Jon-Tom waved at the emptiness above
the tiny stone wall. An invisible wall of flame now
enclosed them. He shook his hand and blew on his fingers
to cool them, deciding they weren't going to blister.
Escape wouldn't be easy.
Roseroar sighed and settled herself on the hard ground.
"An ironic conclusion to yoah expedition, Jon-Tom. Cap-
tured and imprisoned by a bunch of disgruntled, not to
mention uncouth, enchanted folk."
"Don't be so quick to give up. They may decide to let
us go yet. Besides," he swung his duar around, "we have
magic of our own."
Mudge looked imploringly heavenward. "Why me, wot?"
"I do not know that spellsinging will work against the
fairy folk, sir," said Jalwar. "In my travels I have heard
that they are immune to all forms of magic except their
own. It may be that yours will have no effect on them, and
may even be turned against you."
"You don't say." Jon-Tom's fingers fell from the duar's
strings, together with what remained of his confidence. "I
didn't know that."
"It may not be so, but it is what I have heard many
times."
"We'll hold it as a last resort, then."
"Wot difference does it make, mate? 'Alf the time it
backfires on you anyhows. If it doubles back on us I
wouldn't want it to 'appen while I'm stuck in this clearin'."
"Neither would I, Mudge." He looked out toward the
winking lights of the village. "We may not have any
choice. They don't seem much inclined to listen to reason."
"I think they're all crazy," commented Folly.
In the fading light she looked healthy and beautiful. The
impermanent bruises and scars Corroboc had inflicted on
her were healing fast. She was resilient, tough, and grow-
ing more feminine by the day. She was also making
Jon-Tom increasingly uneasy.
He turned to Mudge, saw the otter standing as close as
possible to the invisible barrier enclosing them.
"What's up, Mudge?"
The otter screwed up his face, his whiskers twitching.
"Can't you smell it, too, mate? Garbage." He nodded
toward the town. "It's everywhere. Maybe they're enchanted,
but that's not the word I'd use to describe their sewage
system."
"Ah saw their gardens when we came in," said Roseroar
thoughtfully. "They appeahed to be untended."
"So fairy town's gone to hell," Jon-Tom murmured.
"Something's very wrong here."
"Wot difference do it make to us, mate? We 'ave our
own problems. Dealin' with 'Er Crossness, for one thing."
"If we could figure out what's wrong here,"
Jon-Tom
argued, "maybe we could ingratiate ourselves with our
captors."
"You ingratiate yourself, mate. Me, I'm for some sleep."
Jon-Tom didn't doubt that the otter could sleep on the
bare rock. If Mudge were tossed out of a plane at twenty
thousand feet, the otter could catch twenty winks before
awakening to open his parachute. It was a talent he often
envied.
"Sleeping won't solve our problem."
"It'll solve me immediate one, mate. I'm pooped."
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Alan Dean Foster
THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
193
"Perhaps yoah magic will work against the enchanted
folk," Roseroar said hopefully.
"I don't know." Jon-Tom tapped the wood of the duar,
was rewarded with a melodious thumping sound. The
moon was shining down into the narrow defile, illuminat-
ing the dense woods surrounding them. "I'm going to hold
off till the last possible moment to find out."
The tigress was slipping out of her armor and using it to
make a crude pillow. "Ah don't know." She rested her
massive head on black and white paws. "It seems to me
that we're already theah."
Grelgen and the rest of the fairy council came for them
in the morning. Their principal nemesis had changed into a
flowing gown of orange chiffon. The bright pastel attire
had not softened her disposition, however.
"We've been considering what to do with you bums
most of the night," she informed them brusquely.
Jon-Tom stretched, pushed at his tower back, and wished1,
he'd had the sense to use Roseroar for a cushion. He was
stiff and sore from spending the night on the hard ground.
"All I can tell you is that we're innocent of any charges
you discussed. So what are you going to do now?"
"Eat," she informed him. "Talk more later."
"Well now, I could do with a spot o' breakfast!" Mudge
tried to muster some enthusiasm. Maybe Jon-Tom was right
after all, and these cute little enchanted bastards were finally
going to act in a civilized manner. "Where do we eat?"
"Wrong pronoun," Grelgen said. She turned to point
with her wand.
Jon-Tom followed it into the brush. What the poor light
of evening had kept hidden from view was now revealed
by the bright light of day. Up the creek beyond the town,
thick peeled branches spanned a shallow excavation. The
firepit showed signs of recent use.
Mudge saw it, too, and his initial enthusiasm vanished.
"Uh, wot's on the menu, luv?"
Spellsinger 03 - The Day of the Dissonance Page 22