"It's how they are. Don't you think we'd change it if we

could? But we can't. This is iife: boring, dull, unchanging,

gray, depressing, decay..."

 

"But it doesn't have to be that way. It's you who let it

remain so." Unslinging the duar, he launched into the

brightest, cheeriest song he could think of: John Denver's

"Rocky Mountain High." He finished with Rick Springfield's

"We All Need the Human Touch." The gray sky didn't

clear, the mist didn't lift, but he felt a lot better.

 

"There! What did you think of that?"

 

"Truly depressing," said the toadstool. "Not the songs.

Your voice."

 

Eighty million mushrooms in the Muddletup Moors,

Jon-Tom mused, and I have to get a music critic. He

laughed at the absurdity of it, and the laughter made him

feel better still.

 

"Isn't there anything that can lighten your existence,

make your lives more bearable so you'll leave us alone?"

 

"We can't help sharing our feelings," said the second

 

THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

 

75

 

mushroom, "We're not laying all this heavy stuff on you

to be mean, man. We ain't mean. We're indifferent.

What's bringing you down is your own knowledge of life's

futility and your own inability to do anything about it.

Face it, man: the cosmos is a downer."

 

Hopeless. These beings were hopeless, Jon-Tom told

himself angrily. How could you fight something that didn't

come at you with shields and swords and spears? What

could he employ against a broadside of moroseness, a

barrage of doubt?

 

They sounded so sure of themselves, so confident of the

truth. All right then, he'd show them the truth! If he

couldn't fight them by differing with them, maybe he

could win by agreeing with them.

 

He took a deep breath. "The trouble with you is that

you're all manic-depressives."

 

A long silence, an atmosphere of consideration, before

the toadstool inquired, "What are you talking about,

man?" In the background a couple of rusts whispered to

one another, "Talk about a weird dude."

 

"I haven't had that much psychology, but pre-law re-

quires some," Jon-Tom explained. "You know, I'll bet not

one of you has ever considered psychoanalysis for your

problems."

 

"Considered what?" asked the first mushroom.

 

Jon-Tom found a suitable rock—a hard, uncomfortable

one sure to keep him awake. "Pay attention now. Anybody

here ever heard of Franz Kafka?"

 

Several hours passed. Mudge and Roseroar had time to

reawaken completely, and the mental voices surrounding

them had become almost alive, though all were still flat

and tinged with melancholy.

 

". . .And another thing," Jon-Tom was saying as he

pointed upward, "that sky you're all always referring to.

Nothing but infantile anal-retentive reinforcement. Well,

maybe not exactly that," he corrected himself as he

reminded himself of the rather drastic anatomical differ-

 

76

 

Alan Dean Foster

 

THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

 

77

 

ences between himself and his audience, "but it's the

same idea."

 

"We can't do anything about it," said the giant toad-

stool. "The mist and clouds and coolness are always with

us. If they weren't, we'd all die. That's depressing. And

what's even more depressing is that we don't particularly

like perpetual mist and clouds and fog."

 

Jon-Tom struggled desperately for a reply, feeling victo-

ry slipping from his grasp. "It's not the fact that it's

cloudy and damp all the time that matters. What matters is

your outlook on the fact."

 

"What do you mean, our outlook?" asked a newcomer,

an interested slime mold. "Our outlook is glum and

miserable and pointless."

 

"Only if you think of it that way," Jon-Tom informed

it. "Sure, you can think of yourselves as hopeless. But

why not view your situation in a positive light? It's just a

matter of redirecting your outlook on life. Instead of

regarding your natural state as depressing, think of the

constancy of climate and terrain as stabilizing, reassuring.

In mental health, attitude is everything."

 

"I'm not sure I follow you, man," said another mushroom.

 

"Me neither, mate."

 

"Be quiet, Mudge. Listen, existence is what you make

of it. How you view your surroundings will affect how you

feel about them."

 

"How can we feel anything other than depressed in

surroundings like these?" wondered the liverworts.

 

"Right, then. If you feel more comfortable, go with

those thoughts. There's nothing wrong with being de-

pressed and miserable all the time, so long as you feel

good about it. Have you ever felt bright and cheery?"

 

"No, no, no," was the immediate and general consensus.

 

"Then how do you know that it's any better than feeling

depressed and miserable? Maybe one's no better than the

other.''

 

"That's not what the other travelers who come our way

 

say," murmured the toadstool, "before they relax, see it

our way, and settle down for a couple of months of steady

decomposition."

 

Jon-Tom shivered slightly. "Sure, that's what they say,

but do they look any better off, act any more contented,

any more in tune with their surroundings than you do?"

 

"Naturally they're not as in tune with their surround-

ings," said the first mushroom, "but these surroundings

 

are.. •"

 

"...Damp and depressing," Jon-Tom finished for it.

"That's okay if you accept it. It's all right to feel de-

pressed all the time if you feel good about it. Why can't it

be fun to feel depressed? If that's how your environment

makes you feel, then if you feel that why it means you're

in tune with your environment, and that should make you

feel good, and secure, and confident."

 

Roseroar's expression reflected her confusion, but she

said nothing. Mudge just sat quietly, shaking his head.

But they were thinking, and it kept them from growing

dangerously listless again.

 

"Hey," murmured a purple toadstool, "maybe it is

okay to feel down and dumpy all the time, if that's what

works for you."

 

"That's it," said Jon-Tom excitedly. "That's the point

I'm trying to make. Everything, every entity, is different.

Just because one state of mind works for us ambulatories

doesn't mean it ought to work the same way for you. At

least you aren't confused all the time, the way most of my

kind are."

 

"Far fucking out," announced one enlightened truffle

from beneath a clump of shelf fungi. "Existence is point-

less. Life is decrepit. Consciousness sucks. And you know

what? I feel good about it! It all fits."

 

"Beautiful," said Jon-Tom. "Go with that." He put his

hands on his hips and turned a circle. "Anybody else here

have any trouble dealing with that?"

 

78

 

Alan Dean Foster

 

THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

 

79

 

"Well, we do," said a flotilla of mushrooms clinging to

a scummy pile of dead weeds near a small pool.

 

"Tell me about it," said Jon-Tom coaxingly.

 

"It started when we were just spores. ..."

 

It went on like that all through the night. By morning,

Jon-Tom was exhausted, but the fungoid forest surround-

ing him was suffused with the first stages of exhilaration... in

a maudlin manner, of course. But by and large, the

group-therapy session had been wildly successful,

 

Mudge and Roseroar had recovered completely from

their insidiously induced lethargies and were eager to set

out again. Jon-Tom held back. He wanted to make certain

the session would have at least a semipermanent effect, or

it wouldn't last them through the Moors to the Glittergeist.

 

"You've certainly laid a heavy trip on us, man," said

the large mushroom that served as speaker for the rest of

the forest.

 

"I'm sure that if you hold to those thoughts, go with the

flow, make sure you leave yourselves enough mental space,

you'll find that you'll always feel better about your places

in existence," Jon-Tom assured it.

 

"I don't know," said the big toadstool, and for an

instant the veil of gloom which had nearly proved lethal

descended about Jon-Tom all over again. "But just consid-

ering it makes me more inclined to accept it."

 

The cloud of despair dissipated. "That's it." Jon-Tom

grew aware of just how tired he was. "I'd like to stay and

chat some more, but we need to be on our way to the

Glittergeist again. You wouldn't happen to know in which

direction it lies?"

 

Behind him, the shapes of three giant amanitas crooked

their crowns into the mist. "This way, friend. Pass freely

from this place.. . though if you'd like to join us in our

contented dissolution, you're more than welcome to re-

main and decompose among us."

 

"Couldn't think of it," Jon-Tom replied politely, falling

 

in behind Mudge and Roseroar as they started southward.

"See, I'm not into decomposition."

 

"Tell us about it," several rusts urged him.

 

Worrying that he might be leaving behind a forest full of

fungoid Frankensteins, Jon-Tom waved it off by saying,

"Some other time."

 

"Sure, that's it, go on and leave," snapped the toad-

stool. "We're not worth talking to."

 

"I've just spent a whole night talking to you. Now

you're bringing out new feelings of insecurity."

 

"No I'm not," said the toadstool, defensive. "It's the

same thing as depression."

 

"Isn't. Why don't you discuss it for a while?" A rising

mental susurration trailed in his wake as he hastened after

his companions.

 

Word of the therapy session preceded them through the

Muddletup. The intensity of the depression around them

varied considerably in strength according to the success of

Jon-Tom's therapy. They detoured around the worst areas

of despair, where the mental aura bordered on the coma-

tose, and as a result they were never again afflicted with

the urge to lie down and chuck it all.

 

Eventually the fungi gave way to blossoming bushes and

evergreens. The morning they emerged from the woods

onto a wide, gravelly beach formed of wave-polished

agates and jade was one of the happiest of Jon-Tom's life.

 

Pushing his ram wood staff into the gravel, he hung his

backpack from the knobbed end, sat down, and inhaled

deeply of the sea air. The sharp salty smell was heartbreak-

ingly familiar.

 

Mudge let out a whoop; threw off his bow, quiver, pack,

and clothes; and plunged recklessly into the warm surf.

Jon-Tom felt the urge to join him, but he was just too

damn tired. Roseroar sat down next to him. Together they

watched the gleeful otter porpoise gracefully through the

waves.

 

"I wish I had my board," Jon-Tom murmured.

 

"Yo what?" Roseroar looked down at him.

 

80

 

Alan Dean Foster

 

"It's a flat piece of fiberglass and epoxy resin. It

floats. You stand on it and let the waves carry you toward

shore."

 

Roseroar considered, decided. "That sounds like fun.

Do y'all think yo could teach me?"

 

He smiled apologetically. "Like I said, I don't have my

board with me."

 

"How big a board do yo need?" Rising, she started

stripping off her armor. "Surely not biggah than this?"

 

"Now, wait a minute, Roseroar. I thought cats hated the

water."

 

"Not tigahs, sugah. Come on. Ah'll race yo to the

beach."

 

He hesitated, glanced up and down the gravel as though

somone might appear on this deserted section of shore.

 

What the hell, he told himself.

 

The clean tropical salt water washed away the last

lingering feelings of depression. Though Roseroar's back

wasn't as even as waxed fiberglass, his toes found plenty

of purchase in the thick white fur. The tigress's muscles

shifted according to his instructions as she steered easily

through the waves with powerful arms and legs. It took no

time at all to discover that surfing on the back of a tiger

was far more exhilarating than plying the waves on a hunk

of inanimate resin.

 

As the afternoon drew to a close, they lay on the warm

beach and let the sun dry them. Clean and refreshed,

Jon-Tom made a fire and temporary shelter of driftwood

while Mudge and Roseroar went scavenging. Life in abun-

dance clung to the shore.

 

The two unlikely hunters returned with a load of crusta-

ceans the size of king crabs. Three of these—killed,

cracked, and cooked over an open fire—were sufficient to

fill even the tigress's belly. This time Jon-Tom didn't even

twitch as he snuggled up against the amazon's flank.

Mudge curled up on the far side of the fire. For the first

time since they'd fled Malderpot, they all slept peacefully.

 

VI

 

As usual, Mudge woke first. He sat up, stretched, and

yawned, his whiskers quivering with the effort. The sun

was just up and the last smoke fleeing the firepit. Some-

thing, some slight noise, had disturbed the best night's rest

he'd had in weeks.

 

He heard it again, no mistake. Curious, he dressed

quickly and tiptoed past his still somnolent companions.

As he made his way over a sandy hillock flecked with

beach grass, he slowed. A cautious glance over the crest

revealed the source of the disturbance.

 

They were not alone on the beach. A small single-

masted sailing craft was grounded on the gravel. Four

large, ugly-looking specimens of varying species clustered

around a single, much smaller individual. Two of them

were arguing over a piece of clothing. Mudge shrugged

mentally and prepared to retreat. None of his business.

What had awakened him was the piteous cry for help of

the person trapped among the ruffians. It was an elderly

voice but a strong one.

 

There was a touch on his shoulder. Inhaling sharply, he

81

 

82

 

Alan Dean Foster

 

rolled and reached for his short sword, then relaxed. It was

Jon-Tom, with Roseroar close behind.

 

"What's happening?"

 

"Nothin', mate. None o' our business, wot? Let's leave

it be. I'm ready for breakfast."

 

"Is that all you ever think of? Food, money, and sex?"

 

"You do me a wrong, guv'nor. Sometimes 'tis sex,

food, and money. Then again at times 'tis—"

 

"Never mind," said the exasperated Jon-Tom.

 

"Foah against one," muttered Roseroar angrily, "and

the one looks none too strong. Not very gallant."

 

"We've got to do something," Jon-Tom murmured.

"Mudge, you sneak around behind the trees off to the left

and cover them from there. I'll make a frontal assault from

here. Roseroar, you..." But the tigress was already over

the hill and charging down the slope on the other side.

 

So much for careful tactics and strategy, Jon-Tom thought.

 

"Come on, Mudge!"

 

"Now wait a minim, mate." The otter watched Jon-

Tom follow in Roseroar's wake, waving his staff and

yelling at the top of his lungs. "Bloody fools!" He

notched an arrow into his bow and followed.

 

But there was to be no fight. The assailants turned to see

all seven feet and five hundred pounds of white tigress bear-

ing down on them, waving twin swords and bellowing fit

to shake the leaves off the nearby trees. There was a

concerted rush for the boat.

 

The four paddled like fiends and were out of sword

range before she entered the water in angry pursuit, throw-

ing insults and challenges after them. Mudge might have

reached the boat with an arrow or two, but saw no point in

meaningless killing or antagonizing strangers. As far as he

was concerned, the best battle was the one that never took

place.

 

Meantime Jon-Tom was bending solicitously over the

exhausted subject of their rescue. He put an arm beneath

the slim furry neck and helped it sit up. It was a ferret, and

 

THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

 

83

 

an old one, distant kin to Mudge's line but thinner still.

Much of the normally brown fur was tipped with silver. So

was the black mask that ran across the face.

 

The stranger was clad in beige shorts and vest and wore

sandals instead of boots. A plain, floppy hat lay trampled

in the sand nearby, next to a small leather sack. Several

other similar sacks lay scattered along the beach. All

looked empty.

 

Gradually the elderly ferret's breathing slowed. He opened

his eyes, saw Jon-Tom, then looked around wildly.

 

"Easy, easy, friend. They're gone. We saw to that."

 

The ferret gave him a disbelieving look, then turned his

gaze toward the beach. His eyes settled on the scattered

leather sacks.

 

"My stock, my goods!" He broke away from Jon-Tom,

who watched while the oldster went through each sack,

one at a time. Finally he sat down on the sand, one sack

draped across his lap. He sighed listlessly, threw it aside.

 

"Gone." He shook his head sadly. "AH gone."

 

"Wot's all gone, senior?" Mudge prodded one of the

sacks with a boot.

 

The ferret didn't look up at him. "My stock, my poor

stock. I am... I was, a humble trader of trinkets, plying

my trade along the shores east of here. I was set upon by

those worthless brigands"—he nodded seaward, to where

the retreating boat had raised sail and was disappearing

toward the horizon—"who stole everything I have man-

aged to accumulate in a short, unworthy life. They kept

me and forced me to do their menial work, to cook and

clean and wash for them while they preyed upon other

unsuspecting travelers.

 

"They said they would let me go unharmed. Finally

they tired of me, but instead of returning me to a place of

civilization they brought me here to this empty, uninhabited

shore, intending to maroon me in an unknown land where

I might starve. They stole what little I had in this world,

taunted me by leaving my stock bags, and would have

 

84

 

Alan Dean Foster

 

stolen my life as well at the last moment had you not come

along, for I was refusing to be abandoned."

 

"Don't give us too much credit," Jon-Tom advised

him. "Our being in a position to rescue you was an

accident."

 

"You can say that again, mate," growled the disgusted

Mudge as he slung his bow back over his shoulder.

 

Jon-Tom ignored the otter. "We're glad we could help. I

don't like seeing anyone taken advantage of, especially

senior citizens."

 

"What?"

 

"Older people."

 

"Ah. But how can I thank you, sir? How can I show my

gratitude? I am destitute."

 

"Forget it." The ferret's effusiveness was making Jon-

Tom uncomfortable. "We're glad we could help."

 

The ferret rose, wincing and putting one hand against

his back. "I am called Jalwar. To whom do I owe my

salvation?"

 

"I'm Jon-Tom. I'm a spellsinger. Of sorts."

 

The ferret nodded gravely. "I knew at once you were

mighty ones."

 

Jon-Tom indicated the disgruntled Mudge. "That ball of

fuzzy discontent is my friend Mudge." The otter grunted

once. "And this tower of cautionless strength is Roseroar."

 

"I am honored to be in your presence," said the ferret

humbly, proceeding to prostrate himself on the beach and

grasping Jon-Tom's boots. "I have nothing left. My stock

is gone, my money, everything save the clothes I wear. I

owe you my life. Take me into your service and let me

serve you."

 

"Now, wait a minute." Jon-Tom moved his boots out of

the ferret's paws. "I don't believe in slavery."

 

" 'Ere now, mate, let's not be 'asty." Mudge was quick

to intervene. "Consider the poor suck—uh, this poor

unfortunate chap. 'E's got nothin', 'e 'asn't. 'E'll need

protection, or the next bunch 'e runs into will kill Mm for

 

THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

 

85

 

sure, just for 'is clothes." He eyed the ferret hopefully.

"Wot about it, guv? Can you cook?"

 

"I have some small talent in the kitchen, good sir."

 

"Mudge..." Jon-Tom said warningly. The otter ig-

nored him.

 

"You said you washed clothes."

 

"That I did, good sir. I have the ability to make even

ancient attire smell sweet as clover again, with the slightest

of cleansing materials. I am also handy at repairing gar-

ments. Despite my age, I am not a weakling. I can more

than carry my weight."

 

Mudge strutted about importantly. " 'Ere then, friend, I

think we should take pity on you and admit you to our

company, wot"?"

 

"Mudge, you know how I feel about servants."

 

"It wouldn't be like that at all, Jon-Tom. 'E does need

our protection, and 'e'll never get out o' this place without

our 'elp, and 'e's more than willin' to contribute 'is

share."

 

The ferret nodded enthusiastically. "Please accept my

service, good sir... and madame. Allow me to accompany

you. Perhaps being proximate to such mighty ones as your-

selves will improve my own ill fortune."

 

"I'll bet you were a good trader," Jon-Tom commented.

"Okay, you can come with us, but as an equal. Not as a

servant or slave. We'll pay you a decent wage." He

remembered the purse filled with gold, stolen by Zancresta's

thugs. "As soon as we can afford it, that is."

 

"Food and shelter and protection is all I ask, great sir."

 

"And stop calling me sir," said Jon-Tom. "I've intro-

duced you to everyone by name."

 

"As you wish, Jon-Tom." The ferret turned to look

down the beach. "What do we now? I presume you are

bound to the east, for if one walks long enough one will

come 'round again to the lands bordering the Bellwoods

and the River Tailaroam, where civilization is to be

encountered."

 

"Don't I wish," Mudge grumbled.

 

86

 

Alan Dean Poster

 

Jon-Tom shook his head. "We don't go to the east,

Jalwar. We go southwest, to Snarken."

 

' 'Across the Glittergeist? Sir... Jon-Tom... I have lived

long and seen much. The voyage to Snarken is long and

fraught with danger and difficulty. Better to begin the long

trek to the mouth of the Tailaroam. Besides, how could

one take ship from this deserted land? And north of here

lie the Muddletup Moors, where none may penetrate."

 

"We penetrated," said Mudge importantly.

 

"Did you? If you say it so, I doubt it not. Still, this far

north places us well away from the east-west trade routes.

We will encounter no vessels here."

 

"You won't get any arguments from me on that score,

mate," said Mudge. "Best to do as you say, go back to the

Bellwoods and the Tailaroam and start over. Likely

Chenelska's give up on us by now."

 

"No," said Jon-Tom firmly. "I am not going back and I

am not starting over. We've come too far."

 

Mudge squinted up at him. "Well now, you've just

'eard this wise old chap. 'Ow do you propose to get us

across that?" He pointed to the broad, sailless expanse of

the Glittergeist. "I like to swim, lad, but I prefer swimmin'

across water I can cross."

 

"What can yo do, Jon-Tom?" Roseroar asked him.

 

He stood fuming silently for a moment before blurting

out, "I can damn well conjure us up a boat, that's what!"

 

"Uh-oh." Mudge retreated toward the trees, searching

for a boulder of appropriate size to conceal himself behind.

" 'Is nibs is pissed off and 'e's goin' to try spellsingin'

again."

 

Roseroar eyed the otter curiously. "Isn't that his busi-

ness, fuzzball?"

 

"That may be wot some calls it. Me, I'd as soon brush

a crocodile's teeth than 'elp 'im with 'is work."

 

"Ah don't understand. Is he a spellsinger or not?"

 

" 'E is," Mudge admitted. "Of that there's no longer

any doubt. 'Tis just that 'e 'as this disconcertin' tendency

 

THE DAT OF THE DISSONANCE

 

87

 

to misfire from time to time, and when it 'appens, I don't

want to be in the line o' fire."

 

"Go on, Roseroar," Jon-Tom told her. "Get back there

and hide behind a rock with him." He was mad at the

otter. Hadn't he, Jon-Tom, helped to bring about the great

victory at the Jo-Troom Gate? Purely by accident of

course, but still...

 

"No sun," said the tigress, offended. "If n y'all don't

mind, I'll stand right heah."

 

"Good for you." Jon-Tom unlimbered his duar, turned

away to confront the open sea, where soon he hoped to see

a proper ship riding empty at anchor. Turning also kept

Roseroar from seeing how nervous he was.

 

Once before on a far-distant river he'd tried to bring

forth a boat to carry himself and his companions. Instead,

he'd ended up with Falameezar, the Marxist dragon. That

misplaced conjuration had produced unexpectedly benign

results, but there was no guarantee he'd be as fortunate if he

fouled up a second time.

 

It was too late to back down now. He'd already made his

boast. He felt Roseroar's gaze on the back of his neck. If

he backed down now he'd prove himself an incompetent to

Mudge and a coward to the tigress. He had to try.

 

He considered several songs and discarded them all as

unsuitable. He was beginning to grow frantic when a song

so obvious, so simple, offered what seemed like an obvi-

ous way out,

 

His fingers tested the duar's strings and he began to

sing.

 

Flecks of light sprang to instant life around him. It was

as though the sand underfoot had come to glowing life.

The lights were Gneechees, those minute ultrafast specks

of existence that were drawn irresistibly to magic in

motion. They coalesced into a bright, dancing cloud around

him, and as usual, when he tried to look straight at any of

them, they vanished. Gneechees were those suggestions of

 

88

 

Alan Dean Foster

 

THE DAT OF THE DISSONANCE

 

89

 

something everyone sees out of the corner of an eye but

aren't there when you turn to look at them.

 

But he sensed their presence. So did Roseroar and the

others. It was a good sign, an indication that the spellsinging

was working. Certainly the tune he played seemed harm-

less enough, even to the wary Mudge, whose opinion of

Jon-Tom's musical tastes differed little from that of the

average PTA president.

 

The otter had to admit that for a change the otherworldly

ditty Jon-Tom was reciting was easy on the ears, even if

the majority of the words, as was true of all of Jon-Tom's

songs, were quite incomprehensible.

 

Jon-Tom had chosen the song as much out of despera-

tion as need. The song was "Sloop John 5.," by the

Beach Boys. Given their present needs, it was a logical

enough choice.

 

Nothing happened right away. But before long, Jalwar

was making protective signs over his face and chest while

cowering close to Mudge for protection, while the otter

waited nervously for the unexpected to manifest itself.

Despite her own awe at what was taking place on the

beach, Roseroar stood her ground.

 

Mudge was worrying needlessly. For once, for the very

first time, it looked like Jon-Tom's efforts were to be

rewarded with success. For once it appeared that his

spellsong was going to produce only what he wanted. The

otter moved hesitantly out from behind the shelter of the

boulder, while simultaneously holding himself ready to

rush for the trees at the first hint of trouble.

 

"Bugger me for a blue-eyed bandicoot," he muttered

excitedly. "The lad's gone an' done it!"

 

Rocking gently in the waves just beyond the breaking

surf was a single-masted sloop. The stern faced shoreward

and on the name-plate everyone could clearly make out the

words JOHN B.

 

Jon-Tom let the last words of the song trail away. With it

went the Gneechees and the cloud of blue fog from which

 

the boat had emerged. It bobbed gently at anchor, awaiting

 

mem.

 

Roseroar put a proud paw on Jon-Tom's shoulder. "Sugah,

bless man soul if it isn't a spellsingah yo are. That's a

fine-looking ship, for all that her lines are strange to me,

and ah've sailed many a craft."

 

Jon-Tom continued to pluck fitfully at the duar as if

fearful that the sloop, solid as she looked, might disappear

at any moment in a rush of fog.

 

"Glad you think so. Me, I've never been on anything

il      bigger than a surfboard in my life."

13    "Not to worry. Ah don't recognize the mannah of ship,

but if she sails, ah can handle her."

 

"So can I." Jalwar appeared behind them, "hi my

youth I spent much time sailing many kinds of ships."

 

"See?" said Mudge, joining them on the beach. "The

old fur's provin' 'imself valuable already."

 

"Okay." Jon-Tom nodded reluctantly. "Let's see what

:^      she's like on board."

 

13    Mudge led them out to the boat, as at home in the water

]1      as he was on land. The others followed. By the time

 

•\      Jon-Tom reached the bottom of the boarding ladder, the

 

-'?.      otter had completed a preliminary inspection.

^     "She's fully stocked, she is, though the packin's bloody

jl      strange."

 

iJ    "Let me have a look." Jon-Tom went first to the galley.

|          Cans and packages bore familiar labels like Hormel,

~i      Armor, Oscar Mayer, and Hebrew National. There was

,|      more than enough food for an extensive journey, and they

!      could fish on the way. The tank for the propane stove read

full. Jon-Tom tried a burner, was rewarded with a blast of

blue flame that caused Roseroar to pull back.

"Ah don't see no source of fire."

"The ship arrives already fully spelled for traveling,"

Jalwar murmured appreciatively. "Impressive."

 

"hi the song she's supposed to be on a long voyage,"

Jon-Tom explained.

 

90

 

Alan Dean Foster

 

There was a diesel engine meant to supplement the sails.

Jon-Tom didn't try it. Let it wait until they were becalmed.

Then he could dazzle them with new magic.

 

"Roseroar, since you're the most experienced sailor

among us, why don't you be captain?"

 

"As you wish, Jon-Tom." She squeezed through the

hatchway back onto the deck and began familiarizing

herself with the unusual but not unfathomable rigging. As

with any modern sailing ship, the sloop would almost run

the sails up and down the masts all by itself. It didn't take

the tigress long to figure it out.

 

An electric winch made short work of the anchor.

Roseroar spun the wheel, the sloop hove around with a

warm breeze filling its sails, and they headed out to sea.

Within an hour they had left the gravel beach and the

Muddletup Moors with its confused fungoid inhabitants far

behind.

 

"Which way to Snarken?" she asked as she worked the

wheel and a hand winch simultaneously. The mainsail

billowed in the freshening wind.

 

"I don't know. You're the sailor."

 

"Sailor ah confess to, but ah'm no navigator, man."

 

"Southwest," Mudge told her. "For now that's good

enough."

 

Roseroar adjusted their heading, brought it in line with

the directions supplied by the compass. "Southwest it is."

The sloop changed directions smoothly, responding instantly

to the tigress's light touch on the wheel.

 

Feeling reasonably confident that at last all was right

with the world, Jon-Tom reprised the song and for good

measure added a chorus of the Beach Boys' "Sail On, Sail

On, Sailor." The sun was warm, the wind steady, and

Snarken seemed just over the near horizon.

 

Putting up the duar, he escorted Jalwar down to the

galley, there to explain the intricacies of the propane stove

and such otherworldly esoterica as Saran Wrap and can

 

THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

 

91

 

openers to their designated chef. That and the rest of a fine

day well done, he allowed himself to be first to bed.

 

To be awakened by rough hands shaking him violently.

 

"Get up, get up, spellsinger!"

 

Feeling very strange, Jon-Tom rolled over, to find him-

self staring into the worried face of the ferret.

 

"What... whash wrong?" He was startled by the sound

of his own voice, unnaturally thick and slurred. And the

boat seemed to be rolling in circles.

 

"We are in bad trouble, spellsinger. Bad trouble."

Jalwar disappeared.

 

Jon-Tom sat up. It took three tries. Then he tried to get

out of the bunk and discovered he couldn't tell the floor

from the ceiling. The floor found him.

 

"Wot was that?" said a distant voice.

 

He struggled to get up. "I don't..." He reached for the

railing of the lower bunk and tried to pull himself upright.

"Wheresh the... ?" Somehow he managed to drag him-

self to a standing position. He stood there on shaky knees

that felt determined to go their own way, exclusive of any

contrariwise instructions from his brain.

 

"Whash wrong with me?" he moaned.

 

Two faces appeared in the doorway, one above the other.

Both were blurred.

 

"Shee-it," said Roseroar. "He's drunk! Ah didn't see

him get into any liquor."

 

"Nor did I," said Mudge, trying to push past her.

"Give me room, you bloody great amazon!" He put his

hands on Jon-Tom's shoulders and gripped hard. Jon-Tom

staggered backward.

 

"Blister me for a brown vole if you're not. Where'd you

find the hootch, guv'nor?"

 

"What hoosh?" Jon-Tom replied thickly. "I didn't..."

The floor almost went out from under him. "Say, whoosh

driving thish bush?"

 

A disgusted Mudge stepped back. "Can't abide anyone

who can't 'old 'is booze."

 

92

 

Alan Dean Foster

 

"Leave him fo now," said Roseroar. "We'll have to

handle this ourselves." They turned to leave.

 

"Hey, wait!" Jon-Tom yelled. He took a step forward,

and the boat, sly and tricky craft that it was, deliberately

yanked the floor out from under him. He slammed into the

door, hung on for dear life.

 

Mudge was right, he realized through the glassy haze

that had formed over his eyeballs. I am drunk. Try as he

might, he couldn't remember imbibing anything stronger

than orange juice at supper. After reprising a couple of

choruses of "Sloop John #." to make sure the boat didn't

dematerialize out from beneath them in the middle of the

night, he'd gone to bed. Jalwar was awake and alert.

Everyone was except him.

 

Suddenly he found himself in desperate need of a

porthole, barely located one in time to stick his face out

and throw his guts all over the equally upset ocean. When

he Finally finished puking he was soaking wet from the

spray. He felt a little less queasy but not any soberer.

 

Somehow he managed to slam the porthole shut and

refasten it. He staggered toward the gangway, pulled him-

self toward the deck.

 

Wind hit him hard the instant he stepped out on the teak

planking, and rain filled his vision. Roseroar was holding

the wheel steady with grim determination, but Mudge and

Jalwar were having a terrible time trying to wrestle the

mainsail down.

 

"Hurry it up!" the tigress roared, her voice barely

audible above the storm, "or we'll lose it fo sure!"

 

"I don't care if we do," Jon-Tom moaned, putting both

hands to the sides of his head, "just let's not shout about

it, shall we?"

 

1 'Tell it to the sky, spellsinger,'' pleaded Jalwar.

 

"Yeah, use your magic, mate," added Mudge. "Turn

this bloomin' weather back to normal!" Jon-Tom noticed

that both of them were soaked. "Get rid of this bloody

bedamned storm!"

 

THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

 

93

 

"Anything, anything," he told them, "if you'll just stop

shouting." He staggered and nearly went careening over-

board, just managed to save himself by grabbing on to a

stay. "I don't unnershtand. It wash so calm when I went to

 

bed."

 

"Well 'tis not calm now, mate," snapped Mudge, wres-

tling with the heavy, wet sail.

 

"Ah've nevah seen a storm like this come up so quick-

ly." Roseroar continued fighting with the wheel.

 

"The words," Jalwar muttered. "The words of the

spellsinging! Don't you remember?" He looked straight at

Jon-Tom. "Don't you remember the words?"

 

"But ish just the chorush," Jon-Tom groaned. "Jusht

the chorush." He mumbled them again. " 'Thish ish the

worsht trip, I've ever been on.' I didn't mean that part of

the shong."

 

The ferret was nodding. "So you sang. The spirits

cannot distinguish between what you sing and mean and

what you sing and do not mean. They have a way of taking

everything literally."

 

"But ish not the worsht trip I've ever been on!"

Jon-Tom stood away from the rail on rubbery legs and

screamed his protest at the skies that threatened to swamp

them. "Ish not\"

 

The skies paid him no heed.

 

For hours they battled the winds. Twice they were in

danger of being swamped. They were saved only by the

unmagical efforts of the sloop's pump. Somehow Jon-Tom

got it started, though the effort made him upchuck all over

the engine room. That wouldn't happen again, though. His

stomach was empty.

 

If only it would feel empty.

 

Soon after they pumped out the second holdful of water,

the storm began to abate. An hour later the mountainous

seas started to subside. And still there was no real relief,

because thunder and lightning gave way to a thick,

impenetrable fog.

 

94

 

Alan Dean Poster

 

Mudge was leaning on the rail, grumbling. "We'd

better not be near any land, mates." He glanced upward.

A faint glow suffused the upper reaches of the fog bank,

which had not thinned in the slightest. "I know you're up

there, you great big ugly yellow bastard! Why don't you

bum this driftin' piss off so we can see to be on our way!"

 

"The words of the song," Ja!war murmured. Mudge

snarled at him.

 

"And you pack in it, guv'nor, or I'll do it for you."

 

It was morning. Somewhere the sun was up there,

probably laughing at them. The compass still showed the

way, but the wind had vanished with the storm, and none

of Jon-Tom's feeble coaxing could induce the shiny new

diesel engine to perform.

 

The restored sail hung limp against the mast. The sloop

was floating through glassy, smooth, shallow water. A

sandy bottom occasionally rose dangerously close to the

keel, only to fall away again into pale blue depths each

time it looked like they were about to ground. Roseroar

steered as best she could, and with an otter and a ferret

aboard there was at least no shortage of sharp eyesight.

 

But as the day wore on and the fog clung tenaciously to

them, it began to look as if Jon-Tom's song was to prove

their simultaneous salvation and doom. The wind remained

conspicuous by its absence. Sooner or later the shallows

would close in around them and they would find them-

selves marooned forever in the midst of a strange sea.

 

The tension was taking its toll on everyone, even Roseroar.

Their spellsinger, who had conjured up this wonderful

craft, was of no use to anyone, least of all himself.

Thankfully he no longer threw up. Yet despite his unarguable

abstinence from any kind of drink, he remained falling-

down drunk. Smashed. Potted.

 

If anything, his condition had worsened. He strolled

about the deck muttering songs so incomprehensible and

slurred none of his companions could decipher them.

 

Just as a precaution, Mudge had sequestered Jon-Tom's

 

THE DAY OF THK DISSONANCE

 

95

 

duar in a safe place. He'd gotten them into this situation

while sober. It was terrifying to contemplate what might

happen if he started spellsinging while drunk.

 

"We have one chance," Jalwar finally declared.

 

"Wot's that, guv'nor?" Mudge sat on the port side of

the bow, keeping his eyes on the threatening shallows.

 

"To turn around. We aren't that far yet from the beach

where this unfortunate turn of events began. We can return

there, land, or use this craft, provided the wind will return,

to take us back to the mouth of the Tailaroam and

civilization."

 

"I'm tempted, guv, but 'e'll never stand for it." He

nodded back to where Jon-Tom lay sprawled on his back

on the deck, alternately laughing and hiccuping at the fog.

 

"How can he object to stop us?" wondered Jalwar. "He

has the gift, but no control over it."

 

"That may be, guv. I'm sure as 'ell no expert on

spellsingin', but this I do know. 'E's me friend, and I

promised 'im that I'd see 'im through this journey to its

end, no matter wot 'appens."

 

Besides which, the otter reminded himself, if they

returned without the medicine, there would be no rich

reward from a grateful Clothahump. Mudge had endured

too much already to throw that promise away now.

 

"But what else can we do?" Jalwar moaned. "None of

us is a wizard or sorcerer. We cannot cure his odd

condition, because it is the result of his own spellsinging."

 

"Maybe it'll cure itself." Mudge tried to sound optimis-

tic. He watched sadly as Jon-Tom rolled over on the center

cabin and tried to puke again. "I feel sorry for 'im. 'Tis

clear 'e ain't used to liquorish effects." As if to reinforce

the otter's observation, Jon-Tom rolled over again and fell

off the cabin, nearly knocking himself out on the deck.

Lifting himself to a sitting position, he burst out laughing.

He was the only one on the boat who found the situation

amusing.

 

Mudge shook his head. "Bleedin' pitiful."

 

"Yes, it is sad," Jalwar agreed.

 

96

 

Alan Dean Foster

 

"Cor, but not the way you think it is, mate. 'Ere 'e is,

sufferin' from one o' the finest binges I've ever seen

anybody on, and 'e ain't even had the pleasure o' drinkin'

the booze. Truly pitiful." A glance downward showed

sand looming near.

 

"Couple o' degrees to starboard, luv!" he called stemward.

 

"Ah heah y'all." Roseroar adjusted the boat's heading.

The sandy bottom fell away once again.

 

"It'll wear off," the otter mumbled. "It 'as to. Ain't

nobody can stay drunk this long no matter 'ow strong a

spell's been laid on 'is belly. I wonder when 'e did it?"

 

"The same tune he did everything else," Jalwar explained.

"Don't you remember the song?"

 

"You mean that part about it bein' 'the worst trip I've

ever been on'?"

 

"Not just that. Remember that he made the tigress

captain because she was the best sailor among us? That

would leave him as next in command, would it not?"

 

"Beats me, mate. I'm not much on ships and their

lore."

 

"He reduced himself to first mate," Jalwar said posi-

tively. "That was in the song, too. A line that went

something like "The first mate, he got drunk.' "

 

"Aye, now I recall." The otter nodded toward the

helpless spellsinger, who remained enraptured by a hyste-

ria perceptible only to himself. "So 'e spellsung 'imself

into this condition without even bein' aware o1 doin' it."

 

"I fear that is the case."

 

"Downright pitiful. Why couldn't 'e 'ave made me first

mate? I'd 'andle a long drunk like this ten times better than

'e would. 'E's got to come out of it sometime."

 

"I hope so," said Jalwar. He glanced at the sky.

"Perhaps we will lose this infernal fog, anyway. Then we

might pick up a wind enabling us to turn back."

 

"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.

 

98

 

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."

 

102

 

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.

 

103

 

1O4

 

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

 

106

 

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

cold inside. It was bad enough that fate had dumped him

in this alien otherworld. Now it had chosen to tease him

with a glimpse of reality, of home. He felt like a poor kid

forced to stand in front of the main display window at

FA.O. Schwarz the night before Christmas.

 

Slipping the duar around in front of him, he tried the

song again, tried altering the inflection in his voice, the

volume of each stanza. Tried until his throat was dry and

he could hardly speak. Nothing worked. The song remained

a song and nothing more.

 

He tried other songs, with the same result. He sang

everything he could remember that alluded however vaguely

to going home, to returning home, to longing for home.

The sloop John B. cut cleanly through the waves, running

southwestward under Roseroar's expert guidance. There

was no sign of land to cheer him. Only the dolphins with

their endless corny jokes.

 

"Sail ahead!" Jalwar yelled from the top of the main-

mast. Jon-Tom shoved his own concerns aside as he joined

Mudge near the bowsprit. Stare as he might, he saw only

empty horizon. Mudge had no difficulty in matching the

ferret's vision.

 

"I see 'er, mate."

. "What does she look like?"

 

"Rigged normal, not like this thing." The last of

Jon-Tom's hopes vanished. Not a speedboat, then. "Big,

two rows of oars. That I don't like."

 

"Why not?"

 

"Think about it, mate. Only a fool would try rowin'

across an ocean. Only a fool... and them that's given no

choice in the business."

 

The visitor was bearing down on them fast.  Soon

 

Jon-Tom could make out the silhouette. "Can you see a

 

flag?"

 

Mudge stared hard. Then he began to shake. "That's all

she wrote, mate. There's a 'eart with a knife through it

flyin' from the yardartn. Pirates." He raced sternward,

Jon-Tom hurrying after him.

 

"I thought only traders traveled the Glittergeist."

 

"Aye, traders and them that preys on 'em." The otter

was dancing frantically around Roseroar. "Do somethin',

you bloody great caricature of a courtesan!"

 

Roseroar put the wheel hard over, said evenly, "They've

probably seen us already."

 

"Jon-Tom, spellsing us out o' 'ere!" By now the huge,

swift shape of the pirate ship was bearing down on then-

stern. Strange figures lined the rails and the double rows of

oars dipped in unison.

 

"There's not enough wind," Roseroar observed. "What

there is, is at our back, but they're supplemental' their

own sails with those oahs."

 

Jon-Tom was trying to untangle his duar from around

his neck. "Our engine's out of diesel." He found himself

eyeing the approaching behemoth in fascination. "Interest-

ing lines."

 

"Interestin" my arse!" Mudge was saying frantically.

"You'll see 'ow interestin' it can be if they take us!"

 

"I'm afraid I don't know many songs about boats,"

Jon-Tom muttered worriedly, trying to concentrate, "and

none at all about pirates. See, where I come from they're a

historical oddity. Not really a valid subject for contempo-

rary song writers."

 

"Screw wot's contemporary!" the otter pleaded with

him. "Sing something!"

 

Jon-Tom tried a couple of hasty, half-remembered tunes,

none of which had the slightest effect on the John B. or the

approaching vessel. It was hard to remember anything,

what with Jalwar moaning and genuflecting to the north

 

108

 

Alan Dean Poster

 

THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

 

1O9

 

and Mudge hopping hysterically all over the boat when he

wasn't screaming in Jon-Tom's face.

 

Then there was no time left to think as Roseroar rum-

bled, "Stand by to repel boarders, y'all!"

 

Jon-Tom put the duar aside. No time for playing. The

upper deck of the pirate ship loomed over them. Arrayed

along the rail was the oddest assortment of creatures he'd

encountered since finding himself in this world.

 

One massive dirty-furred polar bear missing an ear stood

alongside three vicious-looking pikas armed with four-

foot-long lances. A pair of lynxes caressed chipped battle-

axes and prepared to swing down on ropes dangling from a

boom. Next to them a tarsier equipped with oversized

sunglasses aimed a bow at the sloop.

 

"Take "em!" snarled a snaggle-toothed old bobcat. He

leaped boldly over the side, swinging a short scimitar over

his ears, and landed on the club end of Jon-Tom's ramwood

staff. He made a strangled sound as the breath went out of

him and there was a cracking sound as a rib went.

 

As the bobcat slid over the side a coyote came down

a rope dangling above Roseroar, intent on splitting her

skull with a mace. The tigress's swords flashed in unison.

Four limbs went their separate ways as the coyote's limb-

less torso landed soundlessly on the deck, spraying blood

in all directions. It twitched horribly.

 

Jon-Tom fought for control of his stomach as the attackers

began swarming over the side in earnest. He found himself

backing away from a couple of armored sloths whose

attitudes were anything but slothful and, rather shockingly,

a middle-aged man. The sloths carried no weapons, relying

instead on their six-inch-long foreclaws to do damage.

They didn't move as fast as the others, but Jon-Tom's

blows glanced harmlessly off their thick leather armor.

 

They forced him back toward the railing. The man

jumped between the two sloths and tried to decapitate

Jon-Tom with his axe. Jon-Tom ducked the blow and

lunged, catching one of the sloths square on the nose with

 

the end of his staff. He heard the bone snap, felt the carti-

lage give under his weight. As the slotii went down, its face

covered with blood, its companion moved in with both paws.

 

Jon-Tom spun the staff, touched the hidden switch set in

the wood, and six inches of steel emerged from the back

end of the shaft to slide into the sloth's throat. It looked at

him in surprise before crumpling. The man with the axe

backed off.

 

Jalwar and Mudge were trying to hack loose the grap-

pling hooks that now bound the sloop to the larger vessel,

but they couldn't do that and defend themselves as well.

Both went down under a wave of attackers. Roseroar had

been backed up to the stern. She stood there, enclosed by a

picket line of spears and lances. Every time someone made

a move to get under her guard, they ended up with their

insides spilling all over the deck.

 

Finally one of the mates barked an order. The spearmen

backed off, yielding their places to archers. Arrows were

aimed at the tigress. Being a brave warrior but not a

suicidal one, she nodded and handed over her weapons.

The pirates swarmed over her with chains and steel bands,

binding her in such a way that if she tried to exert pressure

on her bonds she would only end up choking herself. They

were much more casual in tying up Jon-Tom.

 

A towline was attached to the sloop as the prisoners

were marched up a gangplank onto the capturing craft.

They formed a sullen quartet as they were lined up for

review. The rest of the crew stood aside respectfully as an

unbloodied figure stepped forward and regarded the captives.

 

The leopard was as tall as Jon-Tom. His armor was

beautiful as well as functional, consisting of intricately

worked leather crisscrossed with silver metal bands. His

tail emerged from a hole in the back of the armor. The last

half of the tail looked like a prosthesis, but Jon-Tom

decided it would be impolitic to inquire about it just now.

Four long knives were attached to the belt that ran around

 

110

 

Alan Dean Foster

 

THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

 

111

 

the upper part of the big cat's waist. No armor covered the

muscular arms.

 

Leather gloves with the tips cut out to permit the use in

battle of sharp claws showed many patches and deep cuts

from previous fights. A deep gash across the black nose

had healed imperfectly. Jon-Tom took all this in as the

leopard strutted silently past them. The rest of the crew

murmured restlessly.

 

"You fought well," their inspector finally growled.

"Very well. Too well, thinks I." He glanced significantly

toward the sloop which bobbed astern of the bigger ship.

 

"Too many shipmates lost in taking such a small prize."

Green eyes flashed. "I don't believe in trading good mates

for scum, but we were curious about your strange craft.

Where do you come from and how come you by such a

peculiar vessel? 'Tis not fashioned of wood. I'm sure of

that."

 

"It's fiberglass."

 

The leopard's eyes snapped toward Jon-Tom. "Are you

the owner of the craft?"

 

Jon-Tom nodded affirmatively. "I am."

 

Something stung his face and he staggered, temporarily

blinded. His hand went instinctively to his face and came

away with blood. He could feel the four parallel cuts the

leopard's claws had made. They were shallow, if messy. A

little lower and he would have lost both eyes.

 

Roseroar made a dangerous noise deep in her throat

while Mudge muttered a particularly elegant curse. The

leopard ignored them both as it stepped forward. It's nose

was almost touching Jon-Tom's.

 

"I am...sir," it said dangerously. Mudge mumbled

something else, and immediately the leopard's gaze flashed

toward the otter. "Did you say something, dung-eater?"

 

"Wot, me? Just clearin' me throat... sir. Dried out it

were by a hot fight."

 

" 'Tis going to get hotter for you, thinks I." The big cat

 

returned his attention to Jon-Tom, who stood bleeding

silently. "Any complaints?"

 

Jon-Tom lowered his gaze from the leopard's face,

feeling the blood trickling down his face and wondering if

the scarring would be permanent.

 

"No, sir. No complaints, sir."

 

The leopard favored him with a thin smile. "That's

better."

 

' 'Are you the captain of this ship... sir?''

 

The leopard threw back his head and roared. "I am

Sasheem, first mate." He looked to his right, stepped

aside. "Here comes the captain now."

 

Jon-Tom didn't know what to expect. Another bear,

perhaps, or some other impressive figure. He forgot that

captains are fashioned of brain as well as brawn, mind as

much as muscle. The sight of the captain surprised but did

not shock him. It seemed somehow perversely traditional.

 

Captain Corroboc was a parrot. Bright green, with

patches of blue and red. He stood about four feet tall. The

missing right leg had been replaced with one of wood.

Metal springs enabled it to bend at the knee. A leather

patch covered the one empty eye socket.

 

As was the fashion among the feathered citizens of this

world, Corroboc wore a kilt. It was unpatterned and blood

red, a perfect match to his crimson vest. The absence of a

design showed that he had abandoned his clanship. Unlike

many of the other fliers Jon-Tom had encountered, he wore

no hat or cap. A narrow bandolier crossed the feathered

breast. Sun glinted off the dozen tiny stilettos it held.

 

A member of the crew later informed them that the

captain could throw four of the deadly little blades at a

time: one with each flexible wingtip, one with his beak,

and the last with his remaining foot. All this with lethal

accuracy while balancing on the artificial leg.

 

The remaining bright blue eye flicked back and forth

between the prisoners. Above and below the eye patch the

 

112

 

Alan Dean Foster

 

skin showed an unwholesome yellow where feathers were

missing.

 

"These be all the crew of our prize?" He looked up at

the first mate, and Jon-Tom was surprised to see the

powerful leopard flinch back. Corroboc made eye contact

with each of his own crew in turn.

 

"A brave bunch you are. A bloodthirsty death-dealing

collection... of infants!" His tail quivered with his anger.

"Infants, the lot of you!" Not only Sasheem, but the rest

of the cutthroats were completely cowed by this battered

green bird. Jon-Tom determined not to cross him.

 

"Four against nearly a hundred, was it? A fine lot you

are!" He cocked his head sideways to gaze at the prison-

ers. "Now then. Where be you four bound?"

 

"Just a few days out from the Tailaroam," Mudge

volunteered ingratiatingly. "We were just on a little fishin'

trip, we were, and—"

 

The wooden leg was a blur. It caught the otter between

his short legs. Mudge turned slightly the color of the

captain as he grabbed himself and collapsed on the deck.

Corroboc eyed him indifferently.

 

"The Emir of Ezon has a tradition of employing eu-

nuchs to guard his palace. I haven't decided what to do

with any of you yet, but one more lie like that and you'll

find yourself a candidate for the knife o' the ship's

doctor."

 

Jon-Tom tried to pick a likely candidate for ship's

physician out of the surrounding collection of cutthroats

and failed, though he imagined that whoever that worthy

might be, he hadn't taken his internship at the Mayo

Clinic.

 

Mudge held his peace, along with everything else. The

blue eye fastened on Jon-Tom. "Perhaps you be smarter

than your sour-whiskered companion. Where be you bound,

man?"

 

"Snarken," Jon-Tom replied without hesitation.

Corroboc nodded- "Now, that makes sense, A sensible

 

THE DAY or THE DISSONANCE

 

113

 

one. You be a strange specimen, tall man. Be you from the

region o' the Bellwoods?"

 

"I am." He had to risk the falsehood. It was true

enough now, anyway.

 

The parrot blew his nose on the deck, sniffed. "Fortunately

for you I am in a good humor this morning." Jon-Tom

decided he did not want to encounter him when he was in

a bad mood. "You two"—he indicated Mudge and Jalwar—

"can start cleaning out the bilges. That's a job long

overdue and one I am certain you'll find to your liking.

Won't you?'*

 

Uncertain whether to say yes sir, no sir, or nothing at

all, Jalwar stood and shook in terror. Mudge wasn't up to

commenting. Corroboc was apparently satisfied, because

he nodded absently before moving down to stare fearlessly

up at the towering Roseroar.

 

"As for you, I'd be pleased to make you one of my

crew. Tis plain enough to see you're no stranger to a life

of fighting. You'd make a valuable addition."

 

"Ah'll think it ovah, sun."

 

Good girl, Jon-Tom thought. There was no point in

making the pirate parrot mad with an outright refusal,

though he found himself wishing her reply hadn't been

quite so convincing. Surely she wasn't seriously consider-

ing the offer? But why not? Nothing bound her to Jon-

Tom. In fact, she had reason enough to abandon him.

Hadn't he yanked her unwillingly from her homeland and

involved her in dangers in which she had no interest? If

she were forced to throw in with some stranger, why not

this captain as easily as some unsteady, homesick spellsinger?

 

Spellsinger! He'd almost forgotten his own abilities. Not

a one of this band of murderers knew of his avocation. He

prayed his companions would keep the secret and not blurt

it out in a thoughtless moment. He was particularly wor-

ried about the elderly Jalwar, but the trader stood petrified

and volunteered nothing.

 

As if reading his thoughts, the pirate captain turned his

 

114

 

Alan Dean Poster

 

attention back to him. "And you, tall man. What be you

good for?"

 

"Well, I can fight, too." Corroboc glanced toward his

First mate.

 

Sasheem muttered an opinion, reluctantly, "Passing well."

 

Corroboc grunted and Jon-Tom added, "I am also an

entertainer, a troubadour by trade."

 

"Huh! Well, 'tis true we could do with a bit o' song on

this scow from time to time." He gave his crew a look of

disgust- "I gets tired o' listening to the drunken prattling

o' this uncultured bunch."

 

Fighting to conceal his anxiety, Jon-Tom went on. "My

instrument's on board our ship, along with the rest of our

personal effects."

 

"Is it, now?" Corroboc was sweating him with that one

piercing eye. "I expect we'll find it in due course. You in

a rush to demonstrate your talents?"

 

"At your leisure, sir." Jon-Tom felt the back of his

indigo shirt beginning to cling damply to his skin. "It's

only that it's a fine instrument. I'd hate to see one of your

refined crew reduce it to kindling in hopes of finding gold

or jewels inside. They wouldn't."

 

Corroboc snorted. "Rest assured they'll mind their stink-

ing manners." He addressed the leopard. "Take 'em

below and lock 'em in the brig. Let them stew there for a

bit."

 

"These two also?" Sasheem pointed to Jalwar and

Mudge.

 

"Aye, the bilges will wait. Let them share each other's

filth for a while. By the time I decide to let them out

they'll be clamorin' to get to work."

 

This sophisticated sally brought appreciative laughter

from the crew as they sloughed away to their posts. The

pirate ship turned westward with the sloop trailing obediently

behind it.

 

As they were herded below, Jon-Tom had his first

glimpse of the rowers. Most were naked save for their own

 

THE DAY OF THJE DISSONANCE

 

115

 

fur. They were a cross section of species, from humans to

rodents. All exhibited the last stages of physical and

mental degeneration.

 

That's where we'll all end up, on the rowing benches,

he thought tiredly. Unless we can figure out some way out

of this.

 

At the moment, entry into paradise seemed the more

likely route. If he could only get his hands on his duar,

there might be a chance. However fickle his spellsinging,

however uncertain he was of what he might sing, he was

sure of one thing: he'd fashion some kind of magic. And

the first try would be his last. He was sure of that much.

Corroboc wasn't stupid, and the captain would give him

no second chance to try his hand at wizardry.

 

Roseroar suddenly twisted to look back over her shoul-

der, one paw going to her rump. The first mate was

grinning back at her.

 

"Put yo hands on me like that again, cub, and ah'H

make music with yo bones."

 

"Gentle now, big one," said the amused leopard. "I

have no doubt you'd do just that if given the chance. But

you won't be given the chance. It'll go easier on you in the

long run if you mind your manners and be nice to Sasheem.

If not, well, we have an ample supply of chain on this

boat, we do. Your heart may be made of iron, but the rest

of you is only flesh and bone. Nice flesh it is, too. Think

over your options.

 

"If I ask him nicely, Corroboc will give you to me."

 

She glared back at him. "Ah won't be a comforting

gift."

 

Sasheem shrugged. "Comforting or unforgiving, it won't

matter. I aim to have you. Willingly if possible, otherwise

if not. You may as well settle your mind to that." They

were herded into a barred cell. Sasheem favored Roseroar

with a departing smirk as he joined the rest of his compan-

ions in mounting the gangway.

 

Roseroar sat down heavily, her huge paws clenching and

 

116

 

Alan Dean Foster

 

unclenching. "That furred snake. Ah'd like to get my

claws into his—"

 

"Not yet, Roseroar," Jon-Tom cautioned her. "We've

got to be patient. They don't know that I'm a spellsinger.

If I can just get my hands on my duar, get one chance to

play and sing, we'll have a chance."

 

"A chance at wot, mate?" Mudge slumped dispiritedly

in a comer. "For you to conjure up some poor dancin' girl

to take Roseroar's place? To bury this slimy tub in

flowers?"

 

"I'll do something," Jon-Tom told him angrily. "You

see if I don't."

 

"I will that, guv." The otter rolled over, ignoring the

fact that the floor of their cage was composed of rank straw

stained dark by the urine of previous captives.

 

"What are you doing?"

 

"I'm goin' to 'ave a sleep, mate."

 

"How can you sleep now?"

 

"Because I'm tired, mate." The otter glanced up at

him. "I am tired of fightin1, tired with fear, and most of

all I'm tired o' listenin' to wot a wonderful spellsinger you

are. When you're ready to magic us out o' this 'ole and

back to someplace civilized, wake me. If not, maybe I'll

be lucky and not wake up meself."

 

"One should never ride the wave of pessimism," Jalwar

chided him.

 

"Close your cake 'ole, you useless old fart. You don't

know wot the 'ell you're talkin' about." Hurt, the old

ferret lapsed into silence.

 

Jon-Tom had moved to the barrier and held a cell bar in

each hand. They were fixed deep into the wood of the

ship. Small scavenger lizards and dauntingly big bugs

skittered about in the dark sections of the hold while others

could be heard using the rafters for pathways.

 

Then he turned to walk over to Roseroar and put a

comforting hand on her head, stroking her between the

ears. She responded with a tired, halfhearted purr.

 

THE DAY or THE DISSONANCE

 

117

 

"Don't worry, Roseroar. I got you into this. Maybe I

can't get myself home, but I can damn well get you out of

it. I owe you that much. I owe all of you that much."

 

Mudge was already asleep and didn't hear the promise.

Jalwar squatted in another corner picking resignedly at

strands of hay.

 

I just don't know how I'm going to get you all out of

this, Jon-Tom mused silently.

 

THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

 

119

 

VIII

 

Somehow the concept of "swabbing the deck" was tinged

with innocence; a reflection of childhood memories of

stories about wooden ships and iron men.

 

The reality of it was something else.

 

You rested on your hands and knees on a rough planked

deck, stripped to the waist beneath a hot sun that blistered

your neck and set the skin to peeling off your back. Sweat

flowed in streams from under your arms, from your fore-

head and your belly. Anything small and solid, be it a

speck of dust or one of your own hairs, that slipped into

your eye made you want to run screaming for the railing to

throw yourself over the side.

 

Salt air worsened your situation, exacerbating the sore

spots, making them fester and redden faster. Splinters

stung the exposed skin of hands and ankles while your

palms were raw from pushing the wide brushes soaked

with lye-based cleaning solution.

 

Meanwhile you advanced slowly the length of the deck,

making sure to remove each bloodstain lest some laughing

member of the crew remind you of its presence by pressing

a heavy foot on your raw fingers.

 

118

 

By midday Jon-Tom no longer cared much if they were

rescued or if he were thrown over the rail to be consumed

by whatever carnivorous fish inhabited this part of the

Glittergeist. He didn't have much hope left. Already he'd

forgotten about Clothahump's illness, about returning home,

forgotten about everything except surviving the day.

 

By late afternoon they'd finished scrubbing every square

foot of the main deck and had moved up to the poop deck.

The helmsman, a grizzled old warhog, ignored them.

There was no sign of the captain, for which Jon-Tom was

unremittingly grateful.

 

A crude, temporary shelter had been erected off to the

left, close by the captain's perch. Huddled beneath the

feeble shade this provided was a girl of sixteen, maybe a

little older. Once she might have been pretty. Now her long

blonde hair was so much pale seaweed clinging to her

face. She was barely five feet tall. Her eyes were a

washed-out blue. Excepting the heavy steel manacle that

encircled her neck and was attached to a chain bolted to

the deck, she was stark naked.

 

It provided her with a radius of movement of about ten

feet. No more. Just enough to get from the shelter to the

rail, where she would have to perform any personal bodily

functions in full view of the crew. Jon-Tom had no trouble

following the whip welts, casual burns, and bruises that

covered most of her body.

 

She sat silently within the shelter, her legs extended to

one side, and said nothing as they approached. She just

stared.

 

Jon-Tom used a forearm to wipe the sweat from around

his lips. They were alone on the deck except for the old

helmsman. He risked whispering.

 

"Who are you, girl?" No reply. Only those empty blue

eyes, staring. "What's your name?"

 

"Leave 'er be, mate," said Mudge softly. "Can't you

see there's not much left o' 'er? She's mad or near enough,

or maybe they cut out 'er tongue to keep 'er from screamin'."

 

12O

 

Alan Dean Foster

 

THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

 

121

 

"None of those," said the helmsman. He spoke without

taking his eyes from the ship's course. "That's Folly, the

captain's toy. He took her off a ship that sank several

months ago. She's been nuthin' but trouble since. Uncooper-

ative, unappreciative when the captain tried bein' nice to

her. I don't know why he doesn't throw her overboard and

be done with it. It was folly to bring her aboard, and folly

to keep her, so Folly's been her name."

 

"But what's her real name?"

 

A thin, barely audible reply came from within the

shelter. "I have no name. Folly's as good as any."

 

"You can talk. They haven't broken you yet."

 

She glared bitterly at Jon-Tom. "What do you know

about anything? I've been watching you." Her mouth

twisted. "You're hurting now. I watched when they took

your boat and brought you aboard. The tigress will be

around awhile. The old one won't last two weeks. The

otter a little longer, if he keeps his mouth shut.

 

"As for you," she eyed Jon-Tom contemptuously, "you'll

say the wrong thing and lose your tongue. Or worse."

 

"What happened to you?" Jon-Tom was careful to keep

his voice down and his arms moving lest Sasheem or one

of the other mates take note of the conversation.

 

"What does it matter?"

 

"It matters to me. It should matter to you, because

we're going to get off this ship." If the helmsman over-

heard he gave no sign.

 

The girl laughed sharply. "And you thought I'd gone

mad." She glanced at Roseroar. "The man is crazy, isn't

he?" Roseroar made no reply, bending to her work.

 

"And you'll come with us," he went on. "I wouldn't

leave you here."

 

"Why not? You've got your own business to attend to.

Why not leave me here? You don't know me, you don't

owe me." She spat at the deck. "This is a stupid conversa-

tion. You're not going anywhere."

 

"What happened?" he prodded gently.

 

A tiny bit of the hardness seemed to go out of her, and

she looked away from him. "My family and I were on a

trading packet bound from Jorsta to the Isles of Durl when

we ran afoul of these bastards. They killed my father along

with the rest of the males and later, my mother. Since my

little sister was too young to be of any use to them, they

threw her overboard. They killed everyone, except for me.

For some reason that unmentionable thing they call their

captain took a fancy to me. I imagine he saw ftiture profit

in me." She shrugged. "I've taken care to give them

nothing but trouble since. Hence my name, a gift of the

crew."

 

"Been less troublesome lately," grunted the helmsman

significantly.

 

"Have you tried to escape?"

 

"Escape to where? Yes, I tried anyway. Better drowning

or sharks than this. At least, I tried before they put this

chain on me. I only tried once. There are worse things than

being beaten. As you may find out."

 

He lowered his voice to make certain the helmsman

couldn't overhear. "I don't intend to. We're getting off this

ship. Will you come with us when we do?"

 

"No." She stared straight back at him. "No. I won't. I

don't want to be hurt anymore."

 

"That's why I'm taking you with us." She turned away

from him. "What's wrong?"

 

Mudge gave him a gentle nudge. "Watch your mouth,

lad. 'Tis the captain, may 'e rot in 'is own excrement."

 

"How goes she, Pulewine?" Corroboc inquired of his

helmsman.

 

"Steady on course, Captain."

 

Jon-Tom kept his attention on his scrub brush, heard the

thunk of the captain's wooden leg move nearer.

 

"And how be our fine cleaning crew this bright morn-

ing? Are they working like the elegant fighters we brought

aboard?"

 

"No, Captain." The helmsman allowed himself a grunting

 

122

 

Alan Dean Foster

 

laugh. "As anyone can see, they're working like the scum

that they are."

 

"That's good." Corroboc walked around Jon-Tom until

the parrot was standing between him and Folly's shelter.

He turned his good eye on the man. "Now then, mayhap

we each understand our place in the order o' things, har?"

 

"Yes, Captain," murmured Jon-Tom readily enough.

 

"Aye, that be the way to answer. Keep that tone about

you and you'll live to do more service." He cast a glance

into the shelter and Jon-Tom went cold as he saw the look

that came over Folly's face as she drew back into the

shadows.

 

"Chatting with the young she, have you?"

 

Since the helmsman had been privy to much of their

conversation, Jon-Tom could hardly deny it had taken

place.

 

"A word or two, sir. Harmless enough."

 

"Har, I be sure o' that! A cute little specimen of her

species, though not marketable in her present condition,

fears I. A consequence of noncooperation." Jon-Tom said

nothing, scrubbed harder, trying to push the brush through

the wood.

 

"That's it, boy. Scrub well and we'll see to giving you a

chance to entertain us when you've finished." He shared a

laugh with the helmsman. "Though not the kind you

think, no. The two of you can entertain us together."

 

"I wouldn't get under that whey-faced stringbean if you

shot me with pins," Folly snapped.

 

Corroboc turned that merciless eye on his prisoner.

"Now, what make you think you'd be having any choice

in the matter, Folly? It'll be a pleasant thing to work out

the geometry of it." He lashed out suddenly with his one

good foot. The sharp claws cut twin bloody gouges up her

thigh and she let out a soft cry.

 

Jon-Tom dug his fingernails into the wood of the brush.

 

"That be better now, and we'll be having no more

arguments, will we?" Folly clung to the shadows and

 

THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

 

123

 

whimpered, holding her injured leg. "You've been disap-

pointment enough to me. As soon as we make land I'll rid

myself of you, and I'll make certain your buyer is of a

similar mind when it comes to staging entertainments.

Then perhaps you'll yearn for the good old days back

aboard Corroboc's ship, har?" He turned back to the deck

cleaners.

 

"Keep at it, slime." He addressed his helmsman. "When

they've finished the deck, run them forward and set them

to scrubbing the sides. Sling them over in nets. If one of

them falls through, it will serve as a fine lesson to the

 

others."

 

"Aye, Captain," said the helmsman.

 

Corroboc rose on bright green wings to glide down to

the main deck. The warthog cast a wizened eye at Jon-

Tom.

 

"Watch thy tongue and mind thy manners and thee

might live as much as a year." This admonition was

finished off with a thick, grunting laugh. "Still going to

escape?"

 

You bet your porcine ass we are, Jon-Tom thought

angrily as he attacked the decking. The wood was the only

thing he could safely take out his fury on. We'll get out of

this somehow and take that poor battered girl with us.

 

Without his realizing it, the sight of Folly had done

something their own desperate situation had not: it forced

him to realize how selfish he'd been these past hours,

moping around bemoaning his fate. He wasn't the only

one who had problems. Everyone else was depending on

him—Mudge and Jalwar and Roseroar, and Clothahump

sick and hurt back in his tree, and now Folly.

 

So he hadn't made it back to his own world. Tough.

Self-pity wouldn't get him any closer to L.A. He had

friends who needed him.

 

Mudge noticed the change in his friend's attitude imme-

diately. He scrubbed the deck with renewed enthusiasm.

 

"Work 'ard and 'ave confidence, mates," he whispered

 

124

 

Alan Dean Poster

 

THE DAY or THE DISSONANCE

 

125

 

to Jalwar and Roseroar. "See that look on me pal's face?

I've seen it afore. 'E may be 'alf bonkers, but sometimes

'tis the 'alf bonkers, part crazy part that sees a way out

where none's to be seen."

 

"I pray it is so," whispered Jalwar, "or we are well and

truly doomed."

 

" 'Alf a chance," Mudge muttered. "That's all *e needs

is 'alf a chance."

 

"They may not give it to him," commented Roseroar.

 

While his companions slept the sleep of the exhausted

that night, Jon-Tom planned and schemed. Corroboc was

going to let him sing, out of curiosity if naught else. Songs

would have to be chosen carefully, with an eye toward

suppressing any suspicions the captain might have. Jon-

Tom had no doubt that the homicidal parrot would watch

him carefully.

 

His recital should be as bland and homogenous as

possible. Somehow he would have to find an effective tune

that would have the hoped-for results while sounding

perfectly innocent. The lyrics would have to be powerful

but nonthreatening.

 

Only when he'd arranged a program in his mind did he

allow himself to fall into a troubled, uneasy sleep.

 

The first mate had them scrubbing the base of the

mainmast the next morning. Corroboc strolled past without

looking at the work, and Jon-Tom turned slowly toward

him, keeping his tone deferential.

 

"Your pardon, Captain."

 

The parrot turned, wingtips resting on slim bird hips.

"Don't waste my time, boy. You've plenty to do."

 

"I know that, Captain sir, but it's very much the wrong

kind of work. I miss my chosen avocation, which is that of

minstrel. My knowledge of songs of far lands is unsur-

passed."

 

"Be that so, boy?"

 

Jon-Tom nodded vigorously. "I know wondrous chords

and verse of great beauty, can bring forth the most mellifluous

 

sounds from my instrument. You would find that they fall

lightly on the ears and sometimes, I am embarrassed to say

it, risquely." He risked a knowing wink.

 

"I see," was all Corroboc said at first. Then, "Can it

be that after only a day you know where your true interests

lie? Har, truth and a little sun can do that to one. You'd

rather sing for your supper now than scrub for it, har?"

 

"If you would allow me, Captain." Jon-Tom tried to

look hopeful and compliant at the same time.

 

"Far lands, you say? Tis been a longish time since

there's been any music aboard this tub other than the

screaming of good citizens as they made their way over the

side." He glanced to his left. Mudge, Jalwar, and Roseroar

had been set to varnishing the railings.

 

"And what of your mates? How do you think they'll

react if they have to do your labor as well as their own?"

 

Licking his lips, Jon-Tom stepped forward and smiled

weakly, concealing his face from sight of his companions.

"Look, sir, I can't help what they think, but my back's

Coming apart. I don't have any fur to protect me from the

sun the way they do, and they don't seem to care. So why

should I care what they think?"

 

"That be truth, as 'tis a poor naked-fleshed human you

be. Not that it matters to me. However—" he paused,

considering, while Jon-Tom held his breath, "we'll give

you a chance, minstrel. Har. But," he added dangerously,

"if you be lying to me to get out of a day's work, I'll put

you to polishing the ship's heads from the inside out."

 

"No, Captain, I wouldn't lie to you, no sir!" He added

disingenuously, "If I weren't a minstrel, what would I be

doing carrying a musical instrument about?"

 

' 'As a master practitioner of diverse perversions I might

suggest any number of things, har, but I can see you

haven't the necessary imagination." He turned and shouted.

"Kaskrel!" A squirrel with a ragged tail hurried to obey.

"Get belowdecks and fetch the instrument from my cabin.

The one we took from this man's prize."

 

126

 

Alan Dean Poster

 

THE DAY or THE DISSONANCE

 

127

 

"Aye sir!" the squirrel squeaked, disappearing down a

hatch.

 

"Come with me, tall man." Jon-Tom followed Corroboc

up onto the poop deck. There the captain settled himself

into a wicker chair that hung from a crossbeam. The top of

the basket chair doubled as a perch, offering the captain a

choice of resting positions. This time he chose to sit inside

the basket.

 

The squirrel appeared momentarily, carrying Jon-Tom's

duar. He tried not to look at the instrument with the

longing he felt, particularly since a curious Sasheem had

followed the sailor up the ladder. The squirrel handed it

over and Jon-Tom caressed it lovingly. It was undamaged.

 

He was about to begin playing when a new voice

interrupted him.

 

At first he thought both of the dog's ears had been

cropped. Then he saw that they were torn and uneven,

evidence of less refined surgery. The dog limped and

leaned on a crutch. Unlike Corroboc he still had the use of

both legs. It was just that one was a good foot shorter than

the other. Jowls hung loosely from the canine face.

 

"Don't do it, Cap'n."

 

Corroboc eyed the arrival quizzically. "Now what be

your objection, Macreeg?"

 

The old dog looked over at Jon-Tom. "I don't like it, sir.

Better to keep this one swabbing the decks."

 

Corroboc kicked out with his wooden leg. It caught the

sailor's crutch and sent him stumbling in pursuit of new

support, only to land sprawling on his rump, accompanied

by the derisive laughter of his fellow sailors.

 

"Har, where be your sense of refinement, Macreeg?

Where be your feeling for culture?' *

 

Neither perturbed nor intimidated, the old sailor slowly

climbed back to his feet, stretching to his full four and a

half feet of height.

 

"I just don't trust him, Cap'n. I don't like the look of

him and I don't like his manner."

 

"Well, I be not in love with his naked features either,

Mister Macreeg, but they don't upset me liver. As for his

manner"—he threw Jon-Tom one of his disconcertingly

penetrating glances—"what of your manner, man?"

 

"Anything you say, Captain sir," replied Jon-Tom as he

dropped his eyes toward the deck.

 

The parrot held the stare a moment longer. "Har, that be

adequate. Not quite servile enough yet, but that will come

with time. You see?" He looked toward the old sailor.

"There be nothing wrong in this. Music cannot harm us.

Can it, tall man? Because if I were to think for one instant

that you were trying to pull something peculiar on me..."

 

"I'm just a wandering minstrel, sir," Jon-Tom explained

quickly. "All I want is a chance to practice the profession

for which I was trained."

 

"Har, and to save your fragile skin." Corroboc grunted.

"So be it." He leaned back in the gently swaying basket

chair. Sasheem stood nearby, cleaning his teeth with what

looked like a foot-long icepick. Jon-Tom knew if he sang

anything even slightly suggestive of rebellion or defiance,

that sharp point would go through his offending throat.

 

He plucked nervously at the duar, and his first words

emerged as a croak. Fresh laughter came from the crew.

Corroboc obviously enjoyed his discomfiture.

 

"Sorry, sir." He cleared his throat, wishing for a glass

of water but not daring to chance the request. ' "This... this

particular song is by a group of minstrels who called

themselves the Eagles."

 

Corroboc appeared pleased. "My cousins in flight, though

I chose to fly clanless. Strong, but weak of mind. I never

cared much for their songmaking, as their voices be high

and shrill."

 

"No, no," Jon-Tom explained. "The song is not by

eagles, but by men like myself who chose to call them-

selves that."

 

"Strange choice of names. Why not call themselves the

 

128

 

Alan Dean Foster

 

THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

 

129

 

Men? Well, it be of no matter. Sing, minstrel. Sing, and

lighten the hearts of my sailors and myself."

 

"As you command, Captain sir," said Jon-Tom. And he

began to sing.

 

The duar was no Fender guitar, but the words came

easily to him. He began with "Take It Easy." The long

high notes rolled smoothly from his throat. He finished,

swung instantly into the next song he'd carefully chosen.

Corroboc's eye closed and the rest of the crew started to

relax. They were enjoying the music. Jon-Tom moved on

to "Best of My Love," then a medley of hits by the

Bee Gees.

 

Nearby, Mudge blinked as he slapped varnish on wind-

scoured wood. "Wot's 'e tryin' to do?"

 

"Ah don't know," said Roseroar. "Ah heah no mention

of powerful demons oah spirits."

 

Only Jalwar was smiling as he worked. "You aren't

supposed to, and neither are the ruffians around us. Listen!

Don't you see what he's up to? Were he to sing of flight or

battle that leopard would lay open his throat in an instant.

He knows what he's doing. Don't listen to the words.

They're doing as he intends. Look around you. Look at the

crew."

 

Mudge peered over his shoulder. His eyes widened.

 

"Blimey, they're fallin' asleep!"

 

"Yes," said Jalwar. "They wait ready for the slightest

hint of danger, and instead he lulls them with lullabies.

Truly he is a master spellsinger."

 

"Don't say that, mate," muttered Mudge uneasily. "I've

seen 'is nibs go wrong just when 'e thought 'e 'ad it

right." But though he hardly dared believe, it was looking

more and more as if Jon-Tom was going to bring it off.

 

The spellsinger was now wending his lilting way through

"Peaceful Easy Feeling." "See," whispered Jalwar ex-

citedly through clenched, sharp teeth, "even the armpit

of a captain begins to go!"

 

No question but that Corroboc was slumped in the chair.

 

Sasheem yawned and sat down beside him. They made an

unlovely couple.

 

All around the deck the crewmembers were blinking and

yawning and falling asleep where they stood. Only the

three prisoners remained awake.

 

"We are aware of what he is doing," Jalwar explained,

"and in any case the magic is not directed at us."

 

"That's good, guv'nor." Mudge had to work to stifle a

yawn, blinked in surprise. "Strong stuff 'e's workin'."

 

By the time Jon-Tom sang the final strains of "Peace-

ful Easy Feeling," the pirate ship was sailing aimlessly. Its

bloodthirsty crew lay snoring soundly on the deck, in the

hold below, and even up in the rigging. He took a step

toward Corroboc and ran his eyes over the captain's attire

without finding what he was hunting for. Then he joined

his friends.

 

"Did any of you see where he put his keyring?"

 

"No, mate," Mudge whispered, "but we'd best find

'em fast."

 

Jon-Tom started for the door leading to the captain's

cabin, then hesitated uncertainly. Once inside, where would

he look? There might be a sealed chest, many drawers, a

hidden place beneath a nest or mattress, and the keyring

might not even be kept in the cabin. Maybe Sasheem had

charge of the keys, or maybe one of the other ship's

officers.

 

He couldn't go looking for them and still sing the

sleep spell. Already some of the somnolent crew were

beginning to stir impatiently. And he didn't have the

slightest idea how long the spellsong would remain in

effect.

 

"Do somethin', mate!" Mudge was tugging uselessly

on his own ankle chains.

 

"Where should I look for the keys? They're not on the

captain." Suddenly words in his mind, suggestive of

something once remembered. Not suggestions of a place to

hunt for keys, but snatches of a song.

 

130

 

Alan Dean Poster

 

A song about steel cat eyes and felines triumphant.

About "The Mouse Patrol That Never Sleeps," a lethal

little bloodthirsty ditty about an ever-watchful carnivorous

kitty. Or so he'd once described it to a friend.

 

He sang it now, wishing lan Anderson were about to

accompany him on the flute, the words pouring rapidly

from his lips as he tried to concentrate on the tune while

keeping a worried eye on the comatose crew.

 

The section of anchor chain that had been used to bind

Roseroar suddenly cracked and fell away. She looked in

amazement at the broken links, then up at Jon-Tom.

Wordlessly, she went to work on the much thinner chains

restraining her companions. Mudge and Jalwar were freed

quickly as immense biceps strained. They vanished below-

decks as she worked on Jon-Tom's bindings. By the time

she'd finished freeing him, the otter and ferret had reappeared.

Mudge's longbow was slung over his shoulder and his face

was almost hidden by the burden of the tigress's armor.

Jalwar dragged her heavy swords behind him, panting

hard.

 

They turned and raced for the tow rope attached to the

John B. Only Jon-Tom lingered.

 

"Come on," Roseroar called to him. "What ah yo

waitin' fo?"

 

He whispered urgently back to her. "The girl! I promised."

 

"She don't care what yo do. She'll only be trouble."

 

"Sorry, Roseroar." He turned and rushed for the nearest

open hatch.

 

"Damn," the tigress growled. She pushed past him,

vanished below. While he waited he sang, but the spellsong

was beginning to surrender its potency. Several sailors

rolled over in their sleep, snuffling uneasily.

 

Then a vast white-and-black shape was pushing past

him, the limp naked form of Folly bouncing lightly on one

shoulder like a hunting trophy. Jon-Tom's heart stopped for

a second, until he saw that her condition was no different

 

THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

 

131

 

from that of the rest of die ship's complement. His spell-

singing had put Folly to sleep also.

 

"Satisfied?" Roseroar snarled.

 

"Quite." He muffled a grin as he raced her to the stern.

 

Mudge and Jalwar were just boarding the sloop, Mudge

having negotiated the short swim with ease, while Jalwar

displayed typical ferret agility by walking the swaying tow

rope all the way down to the boat. Roseroar was about to

step over the side when she saw Jon-Tom hesitate for the

second time.

 

4'Now what's the mattah?"

 

"I've done a tot of running, Roseroar, and I'm a pretty

good swimmer, but the sea's rough and my shoulders are

so sore from pushing that damn scrub brush that I'm not

sure if I can make it. You go on. I'll try and catch up.

When you cast off the line you can swing her 'round and

pick me out of the water."

 

She shook her head. "Ah declah, ah nevah heard any-

one, not even a human, talk so damn much. Grab hold."

She turned her back to him.

 

Deciding this wasn't the time to salvage whatever remained

of his already bruised male ego, he put both arms around

her neck, using one to help balance Folly. Roseroar ig-

nored her double burden as she went hand over hand down

the towrope until all of them were standing safe on the

deck of the John B.

 

"Cast off!" Jon-Tom shouted at Mudge as he ran for the

stern. "I'll take the wheel. Roseroar, you run the sails

up."

 

"With pleasure." She dumped Folly's unconscious form

onto the deck. Jon-Tom winced as it hit, decided that one

more black and blue mark wouldn't show up against the

background of bruises that covered the girl's entire body.

 

Roseroar worked two winches at once while Mudge

hacked away with his short sword at the thick hauser

linking them to the pirate ship. In seconds the sloop swung

clear. Her sails climbed the mast, caught the wind. Jon-

 

132

 

Alan Dean Foster

 

Tom turned her as confused shouts and cries of outrage

began to sound from the deck of the larger vessel.

 

"Not a moment too soon." Jalwar spoke admiringly

from his position atop the center cabin. "You have the

gift, it is certain."

 

Jon-Tom shrugged off the compliment and concentrated

on catching as much wind as possible. "I didn't study for

it and I didn't plan on it. It's just a lucky combination of

my musical training and something I've picked up in this

world."

 

"Nonetheless, it cannot be denied. You have the gift."

 

For an instant it was as if the years had left the ferret

and a different being entirely was standing next to the

mainmast looking down at Jon-Tom. He blinked once, but

when he looked again it was just the same Jalwar, aged

and stooped and tired. The ferret turned away and stum-

bled toward the bow to see if he could help Mudge or

Roseroar.

 

The tigress had the rigging well in hand, and at Jon-

Tom's direction, Mudge was breaking out the sloop's

spinnaker. Behind them, furious faces lined the port side

of the pirate ship. Rude gestures and bloodthirsty curses

filled the air. Above all sounded a thunderous cackling

from Corroboc. The faces fled the railing, to reappear

elsewhere on the ship as the crew swarmed up the masts.

Oars began to dip as dull-eyed galley slaves took up the

cue provided by whip and drum. The big ship began to

come about.

 

But this time the sloop was sailing with the wind to

port. The square-rigged pirate craft could not tack as well

as the modern, fore-rigged sloop, nor could it overtake

them on oar power. Still, with the galley slaves driven to

collapse, it looked for a moment as if Corroboc might still

close the distance between vessels. Then Mudge finally

puzzled out the rigging that lifted the spinnaker. The

racing sail ballooned to its full extent, filled with wind,

and the sloop fairly leaped away from its pursuers.

 

THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

 

133

 

"We made it, we're away!" Jon-Tom shouted gleefully.

Mudge joined him in the stern. The otter balanced

precariously on the bobbing aft end railing, turned his back

to the pirate ship, and pulled down his pants. Bending

over, he made wonderfully insulting faces between his

legs. The pirates responded with blood-chilling promises

of what they'd do if they caught the sloop, but their words,

like their ship, were rapidly falling astern.

 

"Yes, we made it." Jalwar glanced speculatively up at

the billowing sails. "If the wind holds."

 

As soon as his audience had dropped out of sight,

Mudge ceased his contortions and jumped to the deck,

buttoning his shorts.

 

"We'll make it all right, guv'nor." He was smiling

broadly as he gave Jon-Tom a friendly whack on the back.

"Bake me for a brick, mate, but you sure 'ad me fooled!

'Ere I was expectin' you to conjure up somethin' like a

ten-foot-tall demon to demolish them bastards, and instead

you slickered me as well as them."

 

"I knew that if I tried anything overt, Corroboc would

have me riding a pike before the day was out." Jon-Tom

adjusted their heading.

 

"Aye, that 'e would. Crikey but that were a neat slip o'

thought, puttin' 'em all gentle to beddy-bye like you did,

and then freein' up the monster missus there." He nodded

in Roseroar's direction.

 

"Actually I'd intended to go looking for the key,"

Jon-Tom told him, trying to hide his embarrassment.

"When I realized I didn't have the slightest idea where

Corroboc's keyring was hidden I knew the only chance we

had left was to free Roseroar."

 

The tigress stepped down from the mast to join them,

staring back over the stern. "Ah only wish ah'd had a few

minutes to mahself on that boat." Her eyes narrowed and

she growled low enough to chill the blood of her compan-

ions. "That fust mate, fo example. Wouldn't he have been

surprised when he'd woke up without his—"

 

134

 

Alan Dean Poster

 

"Roseroar," Jon-Tom chided her, "that's no way for a

lady to talk."

 

She showed sharp teeth, huge fangs. "That depends on

the lady, don't it, Jon-Tom?" Suddenly she pushed past

him, frowning as she squinted into the distance.

 

"What's wrong?" he asked, turned to look aft.

 

She spoke evenly, unafraid, and ready.

 

"Looks like we ain't finished with ol' Corroboc yet."

 

IX

 

"Gel below, Jalwar," Jon-Tom told the ferret. "You'll be

of no use to us on deck."

 

"I must disobey, sir." The oldster had picked up a long

fishing gaff and was hefting it firmly. "I am not going

back onto that floating purgatory. I'd rather die here."

 

Jon-Tom nodded, held his staff ready in front of him. In

planning and executing their subtle flight from the pirate

ship he'd forgotten one thing. Forgotten it because he'd

been in mis strange world so long he'd come to think of it

as normal. So when he'd planned their escape he hadn't

considered that they might have to deal with the fact that

Corroboc and several of his crew could fly.

 

There were only six of them. The captain must have

threatened all of them with dismemberment to force so

small a group to make the attack. Behind the parrot flew a

couple of big ravens, a hawk, and a small falcon. They

were armed with thin spears and light swords.

 

Jon-Tom set the sloop on automatic pilot, which left him

free to join the fight. Jalwar thought the flashing red light

of this new magic fascinating.

 

The fliers were fast and agile. Corroboc in particular

135

 

136

 

Alan Dean Foster

 

might be short an eye and a leg, but there was nothing

wrong with his wings. He dove and twisted as he thrust,

keeping just out of range of his former prisoner's weapons.

Nevertheless, it soon became clear that the pirates were

overmatched.

 

Corroboc's strategy was good. It called for his crew to

stay just beyond sword range while striking with their

needlelike spears. It might even have worked except for

the one joker in the sloop's deck. With his longbow,

Mudge gleefully picked off first the falcon and then wounded

one of the ravens.

 

This forced the attackers to close with their quarry, and

their agility couldn't compensate for their relatively small

size. One of Roseroar's spinning swords sliced the wounded

raven in half. Then another of Mudge's arrows pierced the

hawk's thin armor. When he saw that he couldn't hope to

win either at long range or in close, Corroboc ordered a

retreat.

 

"Have a care for your gullets, scum!" the parrot shouted

at them as he danced angrily in the air just out of arrow

range. "I swear your fate be sealed! The oceans, nay, the

whole world be not big enough to hide you from me.

Wherever you run to old Corroboc will find you, and when

he do, you'll wish you'd never been borned!"

 

"Blow it out your arse, mate!" Mudge followed this

with a long string of insulting comments on the captain's

dubious ancestry. Roseroar listened with distaste.

 

"Such uncouthness! Ah do declah, it makes me queasy

all ovah. Ah do so long fo the refined conversation of

civilized company."

 

The otter overheard and cast a dignified eye back at her.

"Cor! I'll 'ave you know, me elephantine kitten, that me

language is as fucking refined as anyone's!"

 

"Yes," she agreed sweetly. "Ah surely don't know how

ah could have thought otherwise."

 

Jon-Tom stepped between them. "What are you two

 

THE DAY or THE DISSONANCE

 

137

 

arguing about this time? We won, and we're safely on

course again."

 

A shaky, no longer cocky voice came from the gangway.

"What... what did we win? Who won?"

 

Jon-Tom remembered Folly. "Take the wheel, Roseroar."

 

"Jon-Tom, if n yo want mah opinion, ah think—!"

 

He disengaged the autopilot. The boat heeled sharply to

port, and Roseroar was forced to grab the wheel to keep it

from spinning wildly.

 

Jon-Tom searched the gangway, finally discovered Folly

huddled far back in a lower bunk. Within the sloop's

clean, quiet confines she looked suddenly fragile. The iron

collar was an ugly dark stain around her pale neck.

 

He studied it thoughtfully. The sloop was well stocked.

If he searched, he was certain he could find a hacksaw or

something with which to cut the metal.

 

"Relax, calm yourself." He spoke gently, soothingly.

"You're free. Just as I promised. Well, not completely

free," he corrected himself, smiling encouragingly. "You're

still stuck with us. But you can forget about Corroboc.

You'll never have to worry about him again. I spellsang

them to sleep. You too. While they all slept, we escaped."

 

Her reply was halting. "Then... you are a wizard.

And I doubted you."

 

"Forget it. Sometimes I doubt it myself." She was

swaying on the bunk and he was suddenly concerned.

"Hey, you don't look so good."

 

"I'm so tired...." She put her hand to her forehead

and fell over into his arms. He was acutely aware of her

nakedness. Not to mention her smell. Corroboc's ship was

no paragon of good hygiene. Folly likely hadn't bathed

since she'd been taken captive.

 

He slipped a supportive arm around her back. "Come

with me." He helped her stumble toward the ship's head.

"We'll let you get cleaned up. Then we'll find some way

to get that chunk of iron off you. While you're showering

 

138

 

Alan Dean Poster

 

I

 

THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

 

139

 

I'll see if I can find something for you to wear. There must

be clothes in one of the ship's storage lockers."

 

"I thank you for your kindness, sir."

 

He smiled again. "That's better. Just call me Jon-Tom."

She nodded, leaning against him. For a minute he thought

she was going to break down in his arms. She didn't. Not

then, and not later. The first thing she'd lost on Corroboc's

ship was the ability to cry.

 

While she washed, he searched the ship's cabinets. One

contained familiar clothing. Familiar to him, but not to any

of his companions. He made a few selections and left them

outside the shower, along with a hacksaw and a file.

 

He'd expected to see an improvement, but he was still

shocked when she reappeared on deck later that afternoon.

 

She'd removed the iron collar. Her hair was combed out

and pulled back behind her. She stood there and looked

down at herself uneasily.

 

"I must look passing strange in these peculiar garments.'*

 

"You'll get no argument on that from me, luv." The

flabbergasted Mudge moved closer to inspect the odd

attire. "Strange sort o' material." He ran a paw over one

leg, reached higher. " 'Ere too."

 

"That's not material," she said angrily, knocking his

questing fingers away.

 

Mudge grinned as he dodged. "Fine-feelin' material to

me, luv."

 

"You try that again, water rat, and I'll..."

 

Jon-Tom ignored them. The argument wasn't serious.

Mudge was being his usual obnoxious self, and he thought

Folly realized it. Besides which he was busy enough trying

to sort out his own jumbled feelings.

 

Folly was gorgeous. There was no other word for it.

Young, but beautiful, standing there on the deck in old

JLevi's and a worn sweatshirt that had SLOOP JOHN B.

printed across the back. She looked so achingly normal, so

much like any girl he might encounter on the beach back

 

home, that for a moment he was afraid he would be the

one to cry.

 

Only the fading but still visible bruises on her face and

the ring the collar had left around her neck reminded him

of where he'd found her. He would have to hunt for the

sloop's first-aid kit. Or maybe he could think of a good

healing song, something more effective here than bandages

and ointments,

 

Roseroar gave the new arrival a cursory once-over and

snorted. "Skinny little thing. Yo humans..." She turned

her gaze to the stars mat were coming out. Jalwar was

already asleep somewhere below, the poor old ferret exhausted

by the strenuous events of the past few days. The horizon

astern was clear, the pirate ship having dropped out of

sight long ago. The wind off the waves still blew them

steadily toward Snarken, a goal temporarily lost and now

within reach again.

 

Snarken itself proved easy to locate. As soon as they

sailed within fifty miles of the city there was a perceptible

increase in the volume of surface traffic around the sloop.

All they had to do was hail a couple of merchant ships

bound for the same destination and follow them in.

 

A long range of hills that rolled down to the sea was

split by a wide but crowded inlet. Once through they found

themselves in a spacious bay ringed by lush green slopes

that climbed several hundred feet above the harbor. Still

higher land was visible off in the distance.

 

Wharves and docks crowded together on the far side of

the bay. These were home to dozens of vessels that docked

here from lands known and alien. Snarken was the princi-

pal port on the Glittergeist's southwestern shore.

 

Jon-Tom steered them through the merchantmen, in

search of an empty dock. Many of the wharves were

constructed of stone. The rocks were smooth and rounded,

evidence mat they had been carried down to the beach by

glaciers some time far in the past. The stones were

cemented tightly together and topped with planks.

 

14O

 

Alan Dean Foster

 

They finally located an open slip. Mudge dickered with

the dockmaster until a fee was settled on. This brought up

the matter of their Malderpot-induced impecuniousness. A

solution was found in the form of several stainless steel

hammers taken from the sloop's toolbox. These the avari-

cious dockmaster eagerly accepted in payment.

 

"What do you think, Mudge?" Jon-Tom asked the otter

as they walked up the pier. "Will he leave the ship

alone?"

 

"An 'onest bloke's easy enough to spot, bein' a rare sort

o1 bird. She'll be safe in our absence. For one thing, the

greedy bugger's terrified of 'er."

 

Jon-Tom nodded, paused as they stepped off the pier

onto the cobblestone avenue that fronted the harbor. Lizard-

drawn wagons piled high with goods clanked and rumbled

all around them. Strange accents and aromas filled the air.

"That bit o' business do bring one problem to mind,

mate."

 

"What's that, Mudge?"

 

"Wot are we goin' to do for money? We can't keep

tradin' away ship's tools."

 

Jon-Tom rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Right you are.

We're going to have to buy supplies for the trek to

Cranculam, too. We're going to need a lot."

 

"I'll say!" said Folly impatiently. "I need some real

clothes. I can't walk around in this silly otherworldly stuff.

People will laugh at me. Besides"—she ran her hands over

the too-tight seat of her jeans—"it binds me most strangely."

Mudge stepped toward her. " 'Ere now, luv, let me 'ave

a looksee. Might be we could loosen this 'ere...."

 

She jumped away from his outstretched fingers. "Keep

your hands to yourself, water rat, or you're liable to lose

them."

 

Mudge pursed his lips hurtfully, turned to Jon-Tom.

"Now, 'ere's an idea, mate. Why don't we sell 'er? That

were probably the best idea that ever occurred to that

rancid bag o' feathers Corroboc. Now that she's cleaned

 

THE DAY OF THK DISSONANCE

 

141

 

up 'alfway decent, she'd likely bring a nice bit o' change.

It would solve two of our problems at once, wot?"

 

Despite his speed, the otter barely succeeded in ducking

under Jon-Tom's swing. The chase shifted to a cluster of

big wooden barrels, but Jon-Tom was unable to run the

tireless otter down. He wore him out pretty good, though.

 

"Take it easy, mate." Both man and otter fought to

catch their breath. Mudge looked out from behind a barrel.

"Let's not kill each other over it. It were just a thought."

 

"Okay. But let's not have any more idiotic talk about

selling Folly or anyone else."

 

The object of this exhausted discussion gazed curiously

up at her rescuer. "Why don't you sell me? I'm nothing to

you. I'm nothing to anyone except myself. Don't think I'm

being ungrateful. I wouldn't have lived another month on

that ship. I want to help you. I can't think of any other

way to repay you for your kindnesses." She threw a

warning glance the otter's way. Wisely, Mudge said nothing.

 

"All I have, though, is myself. If you need money so

badly, selling me should solve your problem. I'm worth

something." She turned away, unable to meet his eyes.

"Even after the way I've been used."

 

He tried hard not to be angry with her. "Where I come

from, Folly, we don't sell people."

 

"You don't?" She looked genuinely puzzled. "Then

what do you do with people who have nothing else to

do?"

 

"We put 'em on welfare, social security."

 

She shook her head. "Those words mean nothing to

me."

 

He tried to explain. "We see to it that everyone is

guaranteed some sort of minimum income, some kind of

sustenance."

 

"Even if they're no good at anything?"

 

"Even if they're no good at anything."

 

"That doesn't seem very efficient."

 

"Maybe it's not efficient, but it's human."

 

142

 

Alan Dean Foster

 

"Brock's blocks, now there you 'ave it, luv. That

explains it all. Sounds like the sort o' bizarre scheme a

bunch o' 'umans would dream up."

 

"Nobody gets sold," Jon-Tom announced with finality.

 

"Right then, mate. Wot do you propose we do for

funds?" He indicated the rows of buildings lining the

harborfront. "We need food and a place to sleep and

supplies."

 

Jon-Tom glanced up at the heretofore silent Roseroar.

"You wouldn't sell her, would you?"

 

The tigress turned away. "It ain't fo me to say." She

sniffed toward the girl. "Perhaps she's just tryin' to tell yo

she wants to go her own way."

 

Jon-Tom posed the question. "Is that true, Folly?"

 

"No. I have no place to go, but I don't want to cause

trouble or be in the way, and I do want to help."

 

"Sensibly put," said Mudge brightly. "If you'll allow

me, mate, I'll begin searchin* out the likely markets, and

we can—"

 

"Wait a minute." Jon-Tom was nodding to himself.

"We can sell the sloop."

 

"The magic boat?" Jalwar looked doubtful. "Is that

wise?"

 

"Why not? From what Clothahump told me, Cranculam

lies overland from Snarken. We've no further need for a

boat, magic or not. As for returning home, I hope to be

able to pay our way. I'm tired of sailing. I'd like to be a

passenger for a while." He put a hand on Mudge's

shoulder.

 

"You saw the way the wharfmaster jumped at the

chance to get those two hammers. Think what some rich

local would pay for the whole boat. There's nothing like it

anywhere around here."

 

"I'd rather sell the girl," he murmured, "but the boat

would fetch more. You're right about that, guv. I'm no

yacht broker, but I'll do me best to strike us the best

bargain obtainable."

 

Teas DAY or THE DISSONANCE

 

143

 

"Mudge, with you doing the dealing, I know we'll

come out well."

 

The otter concluded a sale that very afternoon. Payment

was made in gold. They left behind a delighted trader in

ships and a wharfmaster greedily counting out his commis-

sion. Jon-Tom had no regrets. He'd obtained the sloop for

a song.

 

By nightfall they were established in a clean, moderate-

ly priced harborfront inn.

 

"Wot now, mate?" Mudge dug into his dinner and

talked around mouthfuls of food. Jalwar displayed refined

table manners, while Roseroar ate with precision and

unexpected delicacy. Folly gobbled down everything set

before her and still finished well ahead of the others.

Confident she could take care of herself, Jon-Tom parceled

out a pocketful of coin and sent her off in search of attire

more suited to her new surroundings.

 

"We need to find out which way Crancularn lies," he

told the otter as he sipped at his own tankard, "acquire

sufficient supplies, and be on our way. Clothahump is

waiting on us, and much as I'd like to, we can't linger

here."

 

"Ah'm ready fo some clean countryside," agreed Roseroar.

"Ah've had enough o' the ocean to last me fo a while."

 

"You're bound and determined to see this insanity

through to the bitter end, aren't you, mate?"

 

"You know that I am, Mudge. I gave my word."

 

"I was afraid you'd say somethin' like that." He sighed,

wiped gravy from his lips. "Wait 'ere."

 

The otter vanished into the main dining room of the inn,

returned moments later. He was not alone. With him was a

finely coiffed orangutan. This individual was dressed in

old but well-cared-for clothing. Lace ruffles billowed from

collar and sleeves. His orange beard was trimmed short

and he puffed on a long, curved pipe. One earring of silver

and garnet dangled from his left ear.

 

"So you weesh to traveel eenland?" There was an odd

 

144

 

Alan Dean Foster

 

THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

 

145

 

lilt to his voice that reminded Jon-Tom of the other orang

he'd met, the venerable Doctor Nilanthos of Lynchbany.

That reminded him of the mugging victims the good doctor

had worked on, and of the mugger, the flame-haired Talea.

He forced his thoughts back to the present. Talea was far

away.

 

"That's right. We need a certain medicine."

 

The primate nodded once. "Weel, you'll find no better

place to seek eet than here een Snarken. Eet's the beegest

city on the western shore of the Gleetergeist, and eef what

you seek ees not to be found here, eet ees not to be found

anywhere.''

 

"You see, lad," said Mudge hopefully. "Wot did I tell

you? Might as well start lookin' for 'is sorcerership's fix

right 'ere."

 

"Sorry, Mudge."

 

"C'mon, mate. Couldn't we at least try a local chem-

ist's shop?"

 

"What ees thee problem, stranger?" asked the orang.

The aroma drifting from the bowl at the end of the thin

pipe was fragrant and powerful. Jon-Tom suspected it

contained more than merely tobacco. Evidently the orang

noticed Jon-Tom's interest, because he turned the pipe

about. "Care for a heet?"

 

Jon-Tom forced himself to decline. "Thanks, but not

until we get this business straightened out."

 

"Hey guv, 'ow about me?" Mudge eyed the pipe

hungrily.

 

"You were not offered," said the orang imperturbably.

 

"The medicine we seek," Jon-Tom said hastily, before

Mudge could comment, "is available only from a certain

shop. In the town of Crancularn."

 

The orang started ever so slightly, puffed furiously on

his pipe. "Crancularn, ai?"

 

"In the Shop of the Aether and Neither."

 

"Weel now." The orang banged his pipe on the side of

the table, knocking out the dottle while making certain not

 

to stain his silk-and-satin attire. "I have neever been to

Crancularn. But I have heard rumor of theese shop you

seek. Some say eet ees no more than that, a device of the

veelagers of theese town to breeng attention upon them-

selves. Others, they say more."

 

"But you've never been there," said Roseroar.

 

"No. I don't know anyone who's actually been there.

But I do know where eet ees supposed to lie."

 

"Where?" Jon-Tom leaned forward anxiously.

 

The orang lifted a massive, muscular arm and pointed

westward. "There. That way."

 

Mudge tugged irritably at his whiskers. "Precise direc-

tions, why can't any of these helpful blokes we run into

ever give us precise directions?"

 

"Don't worry." The orang smiled. "Eef you want to

find eet badly enough, you weel. People know where eet

ees. They just don't go there, that's all."

 

"Why not?"

 

The orang shrugged, smacked thick lips around the stem

of his pipe. "Beats mee, stranger. I've neever had the

desire to go and find out. Thee fact that no one else goes

there strikes mee as reeson enough not to go. Eef you are

bound to go, I weesh you thee best of luck." He stepped

back from the table. The main room of the inn's restaurant

was jammed with diners now, and his table lay on the other

side of the floor. He reached up, grabbed the nearest

chandelier, and made his way across the ceiling gracefully,

without disturbing any of the other customers.

 

"It doesn't make any sense," Jon-Tom was muttering.

"If no one knows of any specific danger in Cranculam,

why doesn't anyone go mere?"

 

"I could think of several reasons," said Jalwar thought-

fully.

 

"Can you really, baggy-nose?" said Mudge. "Why

don't you enlighten us then, guv'nor?"

 

"There may be dangers there mat remain little known."

 

146

 

Alas Dean Foster

 

"He would have told us anything known," Jon-Tom

argued. "No reason to keep it from us. What else, Jalwar?"

 

"There may be nothing there at all."

 

"I'll take Clothahump's word that there is. Go on."

 

The ferret spread his hands. "This shop you speak of so

hopefully. It may be less than you wish for. Many such

establishments never live up to their reputations."

 

"We'll find out," Jon-Tom said determinedly, "because

no matter what anyone says, we're going there." His

expression altered suddenly as he stared past the ferret.

 

"Wot is it, mate?" asked Mudge, abruptly alert. "Wot

do you see?"

 

"Darkness. Nighttime. It's been night out for a long

time. Too long. Folly should have returned by now."

He whirled angrily on the otter. "Damn it, Mudge, did

you...?"

 

"Now 'old on a minim, mate." The otter raised both

paws defensively. "I said my piece and you said you

didn't want to sell *er. I wouldn't do anythin' like that

behind your back."

 

"If you were offered the right price you'd sell your own

grandmother without her permission."

 

"I never knew me grandmum, mate, so I couldn't guess

 

at 'er worth, but I swears on me works that as far as I

 

know the girl's done only wot you said she could do: gone

 

tshoppin' for some respectable coverin' for that skinny

 

naked body o' 'ers. Well, not all that skinny."

 

Jon-Tom had a sudden thought, turned on the largest

member of their party. "Roseroar?"

 

The massive torso shaded the table as the tigress daintily

set down half a roast lizard as big as the duar. She picked

with maddening slowness at her teeth before replying.

 

"Ah will pretend ah didn't heah that insult, suh. Ah

think it's obvious enough what has happened."

 

"What's obvious?" He frowned.

 

"Why, you gave her some gold. As she told yo herself,

you owe her nothing and she owes you little, since you

 

THE DAY or THE DISSONANCE

 

147

 

turned down her offah to sell herself. It's cleah enough to

me that she's gone off to seek her own fortune. We've

given her her freedom. She held no love fo us and ah must

admit the feelin's mutual."

 

"She wouldn't think of it like that," Jon-Tom muttered

worriedly. "She isn't the type."

 

Mudge let out a sharp, barking laugh. "Now, wot would

you know about 'er type, mate? I didn't know wot 'er

'type' was, and I've forgotten more about women of more

species than you'll ever think on."

 

"She's just not the type, Mudge," Jon-Tom insisted.

"This city's as new to her as it to us, and we're the only

friends or security she's got."

 

"A type like that," said Roseroar disdainfully, "can find

friends wherevah she goes."

 

"She just wouldn't run off like that, without saying

anything. Maybe you're right, Mudge. Maybe she does

want to strike off on her own, but she'd have told us first.''

 

"Wot for?" wondered Mudge sarcastically. "To spare

you from worryin' about 'er? Maybe she don't like long

good-byes. Not that it matters. You've seen 'ow big this

town is. Wot can we do about it?"

 

"Wait until morning," Jon-Tom said decisively. "We

can't do much without sleep, and it'll be good to sleep on

something that doesn't roll and pitch."

 

"Me sentiments exactly, mate."

 

"In the morning we'll make some inquiries. You're

good at making inquries, Mudge. Like finding that orang

to tell us the way to Crancularn."

 

"Cor, some 'elp > was." He pointed wildly backward.

"That way! 'Ow 'elpftil! That may be the most I can find

out about the girl. I don't know why you bother, mate. I

thought the main thing was gettin' that dope back to

Clothy-wothy."

 

"Check on the girl first. She may be in some kind

of trouble. I'll let her go her own way, but I want to make

sure that's what she wants. I want her to say it to me."

 

148

 

Alan Dean Poster

 

Mudge looked disgusted. "It's your funeral, mate. Just

don't make it mine, too."

 

They slept soundly. In the morning they began checking

the clothing stores in the area. Yes, a girl of that descrip-