The Paths Of The Perambulator

by Alan Dean Foster

  He hit the floor with a whump, landing hard on his tail feathers.

  They were back.

  Back in the cellar. Back among roots and dampness and dirt. Jon-Tom inhaled deeply, sucking in the thick humidity. It tasted of soil and water and living things. The cellar was rich with the perfume of life, the dirt of the wall he was clinging to, thick with the texture of reality.

  In the center of the room the glow bulb was at full intensity. Clothahump was no longer floating inches above his chair but was seated firmly on the hard wood. He was holding tightly to the arms with both hands and breathing hard. When he was convinced it wasn’t going to disappear on him, Jon-Tom let go of the wall and stumbled toward the wizard to see if he could be of any help. He was sweating profusely in the heat of the cellar. Except that it wasn’t hot. It was the same temperature that it had been when they’d arrived.

  He was sweating from the cold, the cold of where they’d been. That’s why it seemed hot to him now. He hadn’t been aware of the cold at the time. You didn’t feel hot and cold on the far side of nothing. You didn’t feel anything at all.

  He shivered.

  “How are you doing, sir?”

  The wizard glanced up at him, gathered himself, and let out a long sigh. Then he smiled reassuringly. “All right. Right as can be expected. I don’t travel as well as I used to. Did you see it?”

  “I saw something. I don’t know what.” He stared at the glow bulb sitting atop its staff, drinking in the pale, reassuring luminescence. Never had he been so grateful to be in a hole in the ground. “I think it might have been the perambulator.”

  “What else could it have been?” Clothahump’s strength was returning and, with it, his enthusiasm. He pushed back the chair, stood next to the light, and stretched. “Consider yourself privileged, my boy. I don’t believe anyone has seen a perambulator in living memory. They don’t hang around long enough to be seen, and even when they do, you might not realize what it is you’re looking at. I confess it’s appearance surprised me.”

  “The way it kept changing, you mean?”

  “Oh, no. Change is the very soul of a perambulator. What I did not expect was for it to be so beautiful.” He glanced past the tall young human. “Sorbl? You still with us?”

  The famulus was standing and rubbing his backside. He grimaced at the wizard. “Unfortunately yes, Master.”

  “Good. Get your feathers in gear. We’re going back upstairs.”

  “I lost the scroll, Master. It was torn from my feathers. There was nothing I could do.”

  “It matters not. I can replace it at any time. I have access to an endless supply. Now, quickly, I need for you to begin packing for our journey.”

  The famulus staggered toward the glow bulb and pulled the staff out of the ground. “You don’t need to convince me, Master. Anything to get out of this place.” He started for the tunnel that led upward.

  Clothahump extended an arm. “A little support if you please, my boy. I am feeling a mite queasy.”

  “I’m not surprised. I don’t feel too steady myself.” He put his right arm around the back of the wizard’s shell, steadying him as they followed in Sorbl’s wake.

  As soon as they were in the tunnel proper and climbing, Clothahump called a halt while he recovered his glasses from the uppermost drawer of his plastron. He studied the six-sided lenses at arm’s length. “Fogged up, my boy.” He produced a cloth and began to clean them. “That was quite a transposition.”

  Jon-Tom found himself gazing worriedly back down the tunnel. Nothing was coming after them, nothing pursued them from the depths of the cellar. How could it? They had been alone down there. There had been nothing with them.

  “I know where we must go now, my boy.” The wizard tapped the side of his head. It made a loud clicking sound, shell on shell. “A long ways but not a difficult one.”

  I’ve heard that before, Jon-Tom muttered, but only to himself. What he said was, “Anyplace I’d know?”

  “I think not. It lies far to the north, north of the Bellwoods, past Ospenspri and Kreshfarm-in-the-Keegs, farther north than you have ever been. Farther north than civilized people care to travel. We will have to hurry. In another month winter will be upon us, and travel in such country will become impossible. We must free the perambulator before the snows begin. And there is a new problem.”

  “Another one?”

  “I fear it is so. I had thought the perambulator frozen by some freak of nature, trapped here by some crack or fallen into some hole in the interdimensional fabric of existence. Such is not the case.”

  Jon-Tom felt the coldness returning. He remembered the pressure of those unseen eyes, heard again that singular wild howl.

  “Its presence here isn’t an accident, then.”

  “No, my boy,” the wizard said somberly. “It has been stopped here intentionally, deliberately, with purpose aforethought. It seems incredible, but the truth often is. I can scarce believe it myself.”

  “I can’t believe it at all. From everything you’ve told me about it I don’t see how anyone could catch it, much less restrain it.”

  “Nor do I, yet it is clear to me that this is what has happened. There is a formidable and sinister power at work here. I could not do such a thing. Something, someone, has caught the perambulator and is holding it prisoner in this time-space frame. If it is not freed, it could not only alter our world permanently, it could eventually destroy it in its attempts to get free.”

  “Then whoever is restraining it could also be destroyed.”

  “Just so,” agreed the wizard, nodding.

  “That’s crazy,” Jon-Tom said firmly.

  “Ah. Now you begin to have some understanding of what we are up against.”

  Jon-Tom said nothing for the remainder of their climb back to the surface.

  III

  It didn’t take long for him to finish packing. A very good friend of his had told him that he who travels light travels best, and Jon-Tom had adhered to that advice ever since. On this world speed was more important than comfort, flexibility a better companion than a spare pair of pants.

  He found Sorbl in the wizard’s study, packing vials and packets under Clothahump’s supervision.

  “I’m all set,” he told his mentor.

  “Good, my boy, good.” He was showing mild frustration as he pawed through a cabinet. “Where did I put those measuring spoons? We will be ready to depart as soon as I’m finished here.”

  Jon-Tom leaned against the wall nearby. “I’ve been thinking about what you said yesterday as we were leaving the cellar. About what we’re ‘up against’? If I’m following what you said correctly, whoever or whatever has trapped the perambulator is not stable.”

  “You’re almost right.” He unearthed a set of tiny spoons bound together by a bright golden ring, looked pleased with himself, and passed it to Sorbl. “Whoever it is, is not unstable; they are crackers, crazy, nuts, bonkers, looney tunes, living in cloud-cuckoo land. Do I make myself clear or do you require further elaboration?”

  “No, I think I get the point,” Jon-Tom said dryly.

  “It is important that you do. It is important that we all do. Because it is highly unlikely that we will be able to reason with this whatever-it-is. It is difficult to fight someone who may not even be conscious of the fact that they are engaged in a fight.” He pulled a tall metal box from another drawer and opened the lid with unusual care. Straining, Jon-Tom could see that it was filled with padding.

  Clothahump extracted a single small wooden box, opened it to inspect the contents, which consisted of one glass vial full of oily green fluid. Satisfied, he closed the box and secured the lid, handed it with both hands to Sorbl.

  “Place this in the center of your backpack, and whatever you do, don’t drop it.”

  Sorbl gingerly accepted the box, cradling it in both flexible wingtips. “What would happen if I did drop it, Master?”

  Clothahump leaned toward his apprentice. “Somethi
ng so horrible, so vile, so unimaginably awful that in more than two hundred years I have not acquired sufficient vocabulary to describe it.”

  “Oh.” Sorbl turned to place the box in his open pack. “I will be very careful with it, Master.”

  Clothahump moved toward Jon-Tom and began selecting volumes from a long shelf of mini-books nearby. The much taller human spoke while watching Sorbl pack. “What’s in the vial you gave Sorbl, sir? Some kind of acid or explosive?”

  “Of course not,” the wizard replied softly. “Do you think I’d be fool enough to travel with dangerous liquids? It’s lime fizz.”

  Jon-Tom’s brows drew together. “I guess I don’t understand.”

  “You say that far too often, but your ignorance is mitigated by your honesty. Won’t you ever learn that to handle magic effectively you must learn to manipulate people as well as formulae? Without anything to worry about Sorbl will find ways to overindulge himself in the liquor I am permitting him to bring along—would that his deviousness extended to his studies. This will give him something to worry about.”

  “I thought we had plenty to worry about already, but I see your point.” He watched while the wizard thumbed through tome after tome, replacing the majority in their places on the shelf, setting the rare selection aside for packing.

  “What do you think our opponent is like? Besides dangerous, I mean.”

  Clothahump considered. “If you’re out of your mind, there are two things that can be done to make you feel better. You can get yourself cured, or you can make everyone and everything else you have to deal with crazy. This is the first instance I can think of where a psychotic has attempted the latter course.

  “It is clear that whoever is restraining the perambulator is doing so for a purpose, with a definite end in mind. That end appears to be turning the world upside down and inside out. For to an insane individual, an insane world might be quite comfortable. No one can accuse you of being mad if they’re mad too. No one can say that you’ve retreated into a world made up out of your own mental fabrications if they’re living in the same world. That is what we are going to have to deal with, my boy. The logic of the mad.”

  As he concluded on the word mad, the wizard began to change. His body attenuated and lengthened. In seconds Jon-Tom found himself conversing with a large, furry yellow caterpillar. Nor was he leaning against the wall of the wizard’s study. The oak tree had been displaced by a giant silken globe within which hung strange objects of unknown origin and uncertain purpose.

  All this he took in through two pairs of compound eyes. He felt uneasy, and from the waist down he had begun to itch. Using several legs operating in tandem, he began to scratch himself, digging for mites in his orange-and-brown fur. Over in the corner of the globe a small blue moth fluttered anxiously back and forth.

  “So strange,” said the moth. “In this world, Master, you are larger than Jon-Tom. Here size must be a reflection of one’s age, for I am the smallest of all.”

  “Reflection of intelligence, more likely,” snapped the wizard. “This is inconvenient. You are not alarmed by your new form?”

  “Oh, no. I believe I have taken this shape before.”

  “Well, I don’t like it,” muttered Jon-Tom, “and I hope we change back soon.” His stomachs were doing flip-flops, and the absence of a skeleton made him fearful of taking so much as a step, even though he knew that his squishy, soft body was unlikely to collapse around him. He was determined not to throw up, not only in order to save face before Clothahump but also because he had not the slightest interest in seeing what a four-foot-long orange-and-brown caterpillar might regurgitate.

  So he sat there and scratched. Several minutes slid past. Five more. Now he was itching from nervousness and not mites. “What do we do?”

  “There is nothing we can do.” Clothahump was preening multiple antennae. “We can only keep calm and wait it out.”

  “It’s held a lot longer this time,” an uneasy Jon-Tom observed.

  “Considerably. I have already pointed out that the duration of each perturbation might increase.”

  “I don’t like this one. I like it even less than I did being a blue crab.” He tried to shift his position to a more comfortable one, with little success. “I think I’m going to throw up.”

  “Try not to, my boy. I expected side effects to begin appearing, but we can do without that particular one. Though it might be interesting.”

  “Like hell!” Jon-Tom bawled. He started to bend over.

  Only to find himself back in the familiar oak-lined study again. He was himself again, tall and human and in possession of a solid internal superstructure. The interior of that superstructure, however, was still queasy, uncomfortable assurance that the transformation hadn’t been a dream. He rushed to the sink and ran cold water over his face and hands, sipping at it when he felt able to keep it down. It stayed down, as did his breakfast. He was pale when he looked up from the basin, gripping the rim with both hands for support.

  “I can see where these perturbations can be more than just awkward.”

  “Quite so.” Jon-Tom couldn’t tell if the wizard was disappointed that he hadn’t thrown up or not. “For example, if you were crossing a bridge and that bridge abruptly became a thin rope, you would have only an instant to assess your new status and adapt to it by balancing yourself or grabbing tight to the rope. Otherwise you would fall, and when the world snapped back to normal, you would find yourself in pieces, no less deceased for having perished during the perturbation. That would be awkward indeed.”

  Sorbl joined them. “All is in readiness, Master.”

  The wizard nodded. “About time. You have your pack, my boy, and I have mine.” He trundled over to the study exit and prepared to shoulder one of the two heavy packs the famulus had prepared. Jon-Tom wrestled his own onto his back and followed his mentor into the front hall.

  He halted there, wondering why the thought hadn’t occurred to him earlier. “Wait a minute. Why are we walking? Surely we’re not going to foot it all the way to the Northern Plateau?”

  “Of course not,” Clothahump assured him. “Once we get to Lynchbany we’ll rent ourselves a wagon or coach.”

  “But that’s a pretty good hike in itself. Why walk even that far”—he swung his duar around in front of him—”when we can ride?”

  “Uh-oh.” Sorbl’s eyes sought a discreet hiding place.

  “Boy.” Clothahump harrumphed, “I’m not much in the mood to try any transportation spells. I’ve too many other things on my mind. Besides, there are one or two bits of sorceral knowledge I’ve managed to forget over the past two hundred years, and we’ve no time to waste looking up the necessary formulae.”

  “I know you’re not being modest.” Jon-Tom was smiling fondly down at the old conjurer. “So I have to assume that you’re worn-out from dealing with the nothing.”

  “I will not deny that the effort was fatiguing.” He was eyeing the duar uneasily. “I sense what you have in mind, but I am not certain you are up to it. I know that you have had a great deal of practice lo these past many months. Despite this, the precision of your spellsinging still leaves much to be desired.’’

  Jon-Tom felt himself flush. “I don’t claim to be perfect. I never did. But I’m a hell of a lot sharper than I was when I first picked up this duar and started playing. And I have conjured up transportation before. Boats and rafts and one time M’nemaxa himself.”

  Clothahump was nodding slowly. “I am aware of what you have accomplished, my boy, and you have much to be proud of, but the ability of calling up simple land transportation is a talent that seems to have escaped you.”

  “You’re forgetting, sir. Remember when we first journeyed south to the Tailaroam River to seek transport upstream to Polastrindu? So that we could all travel together in ease and comfort, I called forth a fine L’borian riding snake.”

  “You’re right. I had forgotten. I remember now, though— just as I remember that you were tryi
ng to conjure up something entirely different. You were as startled by the snake’s appearance as the rest of us.”

  Jon-Tom looked away and coughed slightly. “So I was. But at least I produced something, and it turned out to be perfectly serviceable. This time I’m going to try for a L’borian riding snake. Having already conjured one previously, I ought to be able to produce it on demand.”

  The wizard considered, said reluctantly, “I admit I was not looking forward to the long tramp into Lynchbany. I am of a mind to give my blessings to your attempts. If you are confident . . .”

  “Of course, I’m confident.”

  Clothahump sighed. “My legs feel older even than my head. We could avoid the sordid haggling that would surely ensue over the hiring of a coach. Very well, then. Let us see what you can produce. But let us move outside first. Some of this furniture is old.”

  Jon-Tom followed, feeling several inches taller. Not literally this time, but emotionally, for no perturbation was affecting the world. This was the first time he had actually been requested to spellsing by the wizard, and he was determined not to let his benefactor and teacher down.

  The morning was crisp and clear, with the first bite of fall in the air. Clothahump’s anxiety to hurry on their way was caused by the nearness of winter, when the paths to the Northern Plateau could become clogged with early snows. It was difficult to imagine everything cloaked in white, so brilliant were the red and gold hues of the forest.

  They set their packs aside. Jon-Tom prepared himself while Clothahump placed a simple but effective lockspell on his front door. Then he and Sorbl stood off to one side while Jon-Tom walked out into the taller grass, away from the shade of the enormous old oak tree.

  He let his fingers strum the duar’s double set of strings, adjusted the mass and tremble controls, and cleared his throat. Sorbl left his master’s side and tried to edge inconspicuously around behind the bulk of the tree. Clothahump was made of sterner stuff. He sympathized with his apprentice’s apprehension but held his ground.

  Jon-Tom stood off by himself and let individual chords and notes tumble from the duar. This was not the first time he’d had to hesitate. The problem was that while he knew exactly what he wanted to bring forth, he didn’t know what song to employ. Snakes were not a popular subject of popular music.