The Paths Of The Perambulator

by Alan Dean Foster

  There was a group that called itself Whitesnake, however. One of their tunes, anything related to transportation, might do it. He couldn’t think of anything more appropriate, and he was acutely conscious of an increasingly impatient Clothahump standing nearby and staring at him. Better to sing something, if only to loosen up, than to continue standing there looking like a complete fool. He closed his eyes, remembered the words, began tapping his right foot in time to the beat, and started to sing.

  A slight fluttering in the air, more perceived than seen, caused him to open his eyes. One or two gneechees, those harbingers of magic, were teasing the fringes of his vision. They always appeared when his spellsinging was working. It was a good sign and spurred him to greater efforts with the duar. But while the gneechees remained, darting and dancing around the edge of reality, they did not appear in the hoped-for numbers. Neither did the long, scaly shape of the riding snake.

  He sang harder still, peeling the riffs off the duar as smoothly as any Richie Blackmore might have wished. He strained and sang, and finally something did begin to materialize; a twisting, coiled form on the ground in front of him.

  He would have smiled and called out to Clothahump and Sorbl but the spell was far from complete, and it was evident he still had a lot of singing to do. The famulus was confident enough to edge back around from behind the tree, since it appeared nothing was going to blast the earth out from beneath his feathers. Jon-Tom sang on and on. He was beginning to worry.

  Not that anything remotely dangerous had appeared, but no matter how many verses he recited, the shape on the ground refused to expand. It was a beginning only. It remained nothing more than a beginning. He kept playing until both the song and his throat were wom-out. The last chord faded away into the trees. The pair of gneechees lit out for more congenial climes.

  He approached what he had conjured. It was little more than a few feet long, only a thin shadow of the massive, powerful shape of a L’borian riding snake. But he had brought forth something. He hesitated, then reached down to pick it up. It was a snake, all right, but not one that would call L’bor home. Not only was it far too small, it was made of rubber.

  Clothahump had walked up to join him, stared thoughtfully at the object over the top of his glasses. “It is well known among wizards, my boy, that even the fates have a sense of humor.”

  “Son of a bitch.” Jon-Tom threw the rubber snake as far into the brush as he could. Anxiety had been replaced by anger. Not only had he failed in his declared intention, he’d gone and made a first-class fool of himself in front of his mentor. All those weeks of practice, all that careful studying of fingering methods and positions and sonic adjustments so he could call up something from an interdimensional novelty shop. Maybe the fates weren’t laughing at him, but something surely was, somewhere.

  Clothahump sighed and called out to Sorbl, “Pick up your pack, famulus. Lynchbany has come no closer, and I don’t want to spend more than one night in these woods.”

  “Wait—wait a minute. I’m not through.”

  “You may not be through, my boy, but it appears that you are finished.”

  “Just be patient, sir. One more attempt is all I ask.” So they wanted to see some spellsinging, did they? Spellsinging they were going to see! He was going to conjure up a L’borian riding snake or a reasonable facsimile, or bust a gut trying. Grim-faced, he turned away from both wizard and apprentice and settled on another song. His frustration and embarrassment gave added emphasis to each phrase he sang.

  Both were powerful forces, though not the ones he would have chosen to fuel his magic, but there was no question about their eificacy. Instantly the transparent autumn morning seemed to darken around them. In the dim light the gneechees that had materialized stood out sharply. Not a couple this time but hundreds, enveloping singer and companions in a cloud of iridescent light. As usual, not one of the minuscule apparitions could be seen straight on. They could be perceived only out of the corner of one’s eye.

  Jon-Tom wailed and twisted, sang and played. The fingers of his left hand danced a saraband over the upper strings while his right hand was a blur in front of the duar’s body. As he played, something new was taking shape and form in front of him, something substantial, something worthy of a spellsinger’s best efforts.

  Sorbl retreated behind the tree again, and even Clothahump took an unwilling step backward. A foul-smelling wind blew outward from the solidifying manifestation. Its outlines did not flutter and break this time but grew steadily more visible. It grew and added weight and reality.

  But the shape was still wrong. He hurried to bring the song to a conclusion, trying to see through the glowing mist that enveloped the object. It was not the object of his desires. It certainly was nothing like a L’borian riding snake. But neither was it a cosmic joke akin to the toy he had conjured up previously.

  In shape it was more than recognizable; it was quite familiar. Certainly he had not expected to see anything like it. His throat was sore and his fingers numb from the effort he’d put into the song. Carefully, painfully, he slid the duar back around his shoulders so that the instrument rested against his back. Then he approached the product of his spellsinging. The lingering glow that attended to it was fading rapidly.

  Sorbl flew out from behind the tree, circled the manifestation a couple of times, and then landed next to Jon-Tom. “What in the name of the seven aerial demons is it?”

  Jon-Tom ignored him as he touched it. There was no burning sensation. Neither was it dangerously cold to the touch. The surface was smooth and shiny, like the skin of a L’borian riding snake. He walked completely around it, inspecting it from every possible angle as Clothahump joined them.

  “As I feared, not what you wished for, my boy, but an interesting piece of work nonetheless. Though I recognize neither its origin nor composition, it is clear that it is a vehicle of some kind. For one thing it has wheels.” He tapped one. “They appear to be fashioned not of wood or metal but of some flexible alien substance.” He wrinkled his nose as best he was able. “It possesses a most disagreeable smell.”

  “I know what it is, though,” Jon-Tom told him. “I didn’t think anything like it actually existed. I should say it’s considerably rarer than a L’borian riding snake. But it look like we’ll be riding to Lynchbany and beyond, after all. in style and I agree that it stinks, but at least we won’t have to walk.

  “Where I come from there are books, magazines, other cheap publications, and they all have advertisements for this thing in them, but I never believed they actually existed, and I never heard of anyone actually obtaining one of them. The ads are for army surplus materials.”

  “I do know what an army is,” said Clothahump thoughtfully, “but I have yet to encounter one that boasted a surplus of anything.”

  “In my world,” Jon-Tom informed him, “armies exist for the sole purpose of acquiring the taxpayers’ money so they can spend it on things they don’t need and then turn around and sell the stuff to these surplus stores. The armies have less material and need more money than ever, and there are also more surplus stores each year than before. It’s a miraculous cycle that bears no relationship to anything else in nature.

  “These publications I mentioned are always carrying ads for many things that are quite useful. In addition to what they actually have for sale, they also try to get your attention with items that I’m sure have never existed. The most famous of these is the army surplus jeep for twenty-five dollars.

  “It’s impossible to sell a jeep for twenty-five dollars, but despite post office regulations, ads like that have been appearing for decades. But not one of those twenty-five-dollar jeeps ever existed. And now I know why. The only way to actually get one is by using magic. The wonderful aroma you’re inhaling, by the way, is the delightful fragrance of leaded gas. One of the more common smells on my world.”

  “My profoundest sympathies,” said Clothahump, sniffing ostentatiously.

  “I still can’t
believe it,” Jon-Tom murmured as he stared at the uncovered, olive-drab, open-bodied stripped-down, but nonetheless serviceable twenty-five-dollar genuine army surplus jeep. His wonder was not misplaced, for true to his suspicions he was actually the first person in history to set eyes on one of those fantastic, mythical machines. There must be a special place for such things, he told himself. A special, near-impossible-to-locate corner of the cosmos where hundreds of twenty-five-dollar army surplus jeeps were arraigned side by side with such other imaginary beasts as vegetable choppers that worked with the lightest of pressures, bust-developing creams, two-dollar X-ray tubes that enabled adolescent boys to see through walls, and income tax forms that could be comprehended and filled out by human beings who had not yet obtained their Ph.D.’s in accounting.

  He hefted his backpack and plopped it down in the backseat. “What are we waiting for? Let’s go.”

  Gothahump eyed the alien manifestation warily. “Are you sure this thing is safe?”

  “We’re not likely to run the risk of meeting another one in a blind intersection,” Jon-Tom told him, “so I imagine it’s safe enough.”

  “I would have preferred a snake.” Grumbling, the wizard clambered in on the passenger side, tried to make himself comfortable. “Odd sort of seat, but I expect it will have to do.”

  Sorbl lifted himself oflf the ground and settled down on the back of the rear bench seat, which made a convenient and stable perch. He would probably be more comfortable bouncing over the rough terrain ahead, Jon-Tom reflected, than either of his flightless companions.

  “Let’s see.” The dash was less than basic. The keys dangled from the ignition. He turned them, stomped the gas a couple of times, and waited. The engine turned over smoothly. He raced it a couple of times, enjoying the look of surprise on Clothahump’s face, then depressed the clutch and put it in gear. They started off fast, got approximately halfway around the tree, and stopped. The engine died. He frowned, wrenched the key a couple of times. The battery jolted the engine, but it refused to catch.

  There was nothing magical about the reason. His gaze dropped to the ancient gas gauge. The needle was over past the E, as motionless as a corpse.

  He took a deep breath. “Well, we almost got to ride. I came as close as I could, but even a L’borian riding snake needs fuel.”

  Clothahump considered the mysterious gauge and the motionless needle contained therein. “I see. What does this thing eat?”

  “Gasoline, like I told you.” Jon-Tom wore a sour expression. “What we’re smelling is the bottom of the tank.”

  “Where do you get this gasoline stuff?” Sorbl asked him.

  “Oh, anywhere,” he replied bitterly. “Hey, I’ll just walk up to the nearest Shell station and fill up a can.”

  “You are not thinking, my boy.” Clothahump was shaking a stern finger at him. “You are feeling sorry for yourself. Wizards are not permitted the luxury of feeling sorry for themselves. An occasional pout, yes, but nothing more. It is bad for appearances. Now think. This gasoline: what does it consist of?”

  “It’s a refined fuel.” Jon-Tom wondered even as he explained why he was taking the time. “It’s reduced from oil. You know, oil. Petroleum. A thick black liquid that oozes out of the ground. So what? Even if we could find some oil, it wouldn’t do us any good. I don’t happen to have a refinery in my pocket.”

  “Speak for your own pockets, my boy.” There was a twinkle in the wizard’s eye. Reaching into one of the lower drawers in his plastron, he produced a single marble-sized black pill.

  “Where is the ingestion point, the mouth?”

  Frowning, Jon-Tom climbed out and moved to the rear of the motionless vehicle. “Over here, on the side.”

  “Deposit this within.” Clothahump handed him the black pill. Jon-Tom took it, rolled it between his fingers. It had the consistency of rubber and the luster of a black pearl.

  Well, why not? It couldn’t damage what they didn’t have. Wondering why he was bothering but having learned to trust the wizard’s abilities, he dropped the pill in the gas tank. There was a faint thunk as it struck bottom.

  Clothahump raised his right hand and muttered to the sky.

  Then he spat over the side. Jon-Tom thought, but couldn’t be sure, that the wizard’s sputum was distinctly black.

  “Now try it, my boy.”

  Shrugging, Jon-Tom slipped back behind the wheel and dubiously cranked the ignition. The engine rumbled a couple of times, caught weakly. He pumped the gas pedal, and the rumble became a steady roar. When he lifted his heel off the pedal, the jeep was idling smoothly. The needle on the gas gauge had swung over to “full.”

  “What did you do—no, how did you do it? What was in that pill?”

  “Petroleum, as you call it, is a common ingredient in many important potions,” the wizard informed him. “I merely utilized some concentrates and catalyzed them with an old spell used for adapting hydrocarbons. Nothing complicated. I have no idea how long the combination will suffice to power this machine, but it would appear that at least for now we shall indeed have transportation, thanks to your spellsinging and my magic.”

  “If I ever find a way back home,” he told Clothahump, “I’d be much obliged for a sample of that pill and a transcription of the accompanying spell.’-’ He put the jeep in gear again, sent it rolling toward the nearby trade road that led into Lynchbany. “Ride we shall—unless there’s something else as yet undetected missing from this relic’s chassis.”

  But as they bounced over the rocks and dirt toward the main wagon road, he realized he couldn’t be too severe with his creation.

  After all, they’d gotten it for a song.

  IV

  The stripped-down jeep banged and rattled its way northward. Jon-Tom was convinced it had no suspension at all: just wheels attached to an axle that was directly bolted to the underbody. He wondered which would come apart first: the underside of the jeep or his own.

  Clothahump was of two minds concerning Jon-Tom’s otherworldly procuration. While considerably less comfortable and reassuring than a L’borian riding snake, he had to admit that the jeep was faster. And it had no will of its own. When they startled a fifteen-foot-tall trouk lizard sunning itself in the road, the jeep did absolutely nothing to defend them. A L’borian snake would have quickly driven the monster away.

  Instead they had to settle for an inglorious end-run around the awakened carnivore. The concomitant jolting nearly bounced the wizard out of his shell. In addition to these unexpected drawbacks, the hydrocarbon spell that kept the metal box’s belly sated was continuously running down and had to be periodically renewed. He reminded Jon-Tom that his resources were not unlimited. Before long they would reach the point where the machine would become useless because they could no longer fuel it.

  The bone-jarring ride affected Sorbl least of all. When the bouncing and jouncing began to bother him, he simply spread his great wings, released his grip on the backseat, and took to the air, soaring effortlessly above the treetops while keeping track of his unfortunate companions below.

  They encountered no more dozing carnivores, however, and the road began to smooth out as they drew nearer to Lynchbany. The autumn Bellwoods were beautiful to look upon, with many leaves still clinging to the trees and the ground between carpeted with umber and gold.

  They were less pleasing to listen to, since the dying leaves that still hugged the branches sang out of tune when the wind blew through them. As Clothahump explained, the music of the bell leaves was a direct function of the seasons. An experienced woodsman could forecast the weather by listening to the music the trees played. The tree songs were sweet and melodious in springtime, languorous in the summer, and harsh and atonal as they dropped from their limbs in the fall. They struggled to blot out the discordant chorus from Lynchbany all the way past Oglagia Towne, until they left the woods just south of Ospenspri.

  “Not as fine a sight as grand Polastrindu,” Clothahump told him, “but an attrac
tive little city in its own right, sequestered among rolling hills at the northernmost fringes of civilization.” He was leaning forward expectantly, scanning the terrain ahead for their first sight of that lovely metropolis.

  They were driving through herds of fat abismo lizards let out to graze on the last of summer’s grass. Off in the distance the landscape lifted toward the sky, the distant slopes the first manifestation of the high Northern Plateau. It struck Jon-Tom as strange that no herdsfolk were visible among the abismos, but perhaps they were trained to return to their barns at nightfall by themselves.

  “Ospenspri is particularly famed for its orchards,” Clothahump was telling him. “Up here they grow the best apples and toklas in the warmlands.”

  Jon-Tom kept both hands locked on the wheel. The long drive north from Lynchbany had been harder on the jeep than on any of them. While never exactly responding like a Porsche, its handling had become worse than ever. He’d driven the last couple of days haunted by visions of the wheel coming off in his hands just when they were attempting to round a sharp bend in the road. But the wheel stayed on the steering column.

  Just get us into town, he whispered silently at the straining machine, and I’ll see that you get a formal funeral.

  They swung around a hill crowned with pines and saw the cloud first. A massive black cloud. It was not moving. It just hung there in one place like a lump of sooty cotton that had been pinned to the sky. Directly above Ospenspri. Jon-Tom slowed but didn’t stop.

  As for beautiful Ospenspri, the Ospenspri that Clothahump had never ceased describing to him ever since they’d left home, Ospenspri of the numerous streams and delicately arched bridges and many fountains, Ospenspri the flower of the north, it bore little relationship to the wizard’s word pictures.