The Paths Of The Perambulator

by Alan Dean Foster

  “I don’t know why, but that confession doesn’t surprise me.” He motioned for the otter to be quiet. Colin had finished talking to Clothahump. Now it was the koala’s turn to raise a commanding paw.

  “Silence, please.”

  “Cheeky bugger, I’ll give ‘im that,” Mudge whispered. Jon-Tom made shushing motions.

  Colin had closed his eyes and was mumbling something under his breath. Abruptly a breeze sprang up where there had been no breeze. It whistled in from the east, swirling around them, ruffling Dormas’s mane and Jon-Tom’s long hair. The wind changed direction repeatedly, as though confused and nervous, a zephyr that had lost its way.

  Still murmuring in a guttural singsong, Colin leaned forward to pick up the unimpressive fragments of stone and leather and wood in both paws. Jon-Tom noticed his impressive claws. Keeping the runes cupped in his hands, the koala continued his indecipherable chant. Clothahump was looking on and nodding slowly, though whether he recognized some of what the koala was saying or was merely offering him encouragement, Jon-Tom could not say.

  No glowing points of light, no gneechees appeared. This was a different kind of magic, ancient and simple, as alien to Jon-Tom as Republican economic policy. Going by Colin’s own description, it was as much luck as magic,

  The fur rose on the back of the koala’s head. The fringe lining those oversize ears seemed to quiver as if with an electric charge. Colin concluded his incantation. Then he simply held his paws out over the leather square and opened them. There was no skill involved that Jon-Tom could see. The koala simply opened his paws and let the double handful drop.

  The stones and bones bounced a couple of times before coming to rest on the leather, which Jon-Tom could now see was crisscrossed with a network of fine lines that had been etched into the fabric by some kind of needle-tipped awl or knife.

  Colin inhaled deeply, opened his eyes, and leaned forward to scrutinize the results of his casting. He did not take his eyes from the runes, did not even blink. Such concentration was frightening. Though he tried not to show it, it was evident that even Mudge was impressed.

  Colin took another deep breath, then several short ones. Sitting back on his haunches, he put both paws on his leather-covered knees.

  “What’re you trying to find out?” Dormas finally asked him.

  “I wasn’t casting for anything particular. Many times the throw is uninformative. Other times it results in a pattern you can’t trust. I hope that’s the case with this one.”

  “Why?” Jon-Tom was suddenly concerned. “What does it say?”

  There was a genuine sadness in the koala’s eyes. They shifted from Jon-Tom to the otter standing next to him. “My good friend Mudge, if this pattern is accurate, you have less than thirty seconds to live.”

  IX

  There was dead silence from the little cluster of onlookers. Mudge could only gape at the stranger in their midst. How did one react to a pronouncement like that? Finally the otter tried to smile. He worked at it as hard as he could, but for once that ready grin failed to materialize.

  “You’re tryin’ to scare me, you sorry sod. You’re tryin’ to scare all of us so we won’t find you out for the rhummy-mugger you are. Well, you can’t fool me. I don’t believe in your bag o’ bones for a minute, I don’t.” He spat at the ground, barely missing the leather and its mute contents. Looking around warily, he began backing away from the silent, sorrowful Colin.

  “I wish it might’ve beertOtherwise,” the koala apologized. “There’s no predicting what the runes will say.”

  “Say? That pile o’ shit can’t say boo. ‘Tis a lot o’ garbage, Jon-Tom.” Jon-Tom was staring wordlessly at his friend. “Wot ‘e says as well as wot ‘e’s tossin’ around. Just garbage. Tell me ‘tis garbage, Your Wizardship.”

  Clothahump watched the retreating otter with a maddeningly clinical eye, then spoke to the caster. “By what means?”

  Colin looked back at the motionless runes. “Doesn’t say, old one.”

  “ ‘Tis garbage, it is!” The otter’s voice rose uncontrollably. “Garbage and a bloody lie!” He was glancing around nervously, as though he expected to be attacked at any moment. “Fakery and trickery, I ought to know. The fat bear’s a con artist. There’s more snow in ‘is spiel than crowns those mountains up ahead. Oh, you’re slick, you* bloated fuzzball” —he sneered at Colin—”real slick. But you can’t fool old Mudge. No one can predict the future. No one! And if anyone could, they wouldn’t do it by dumpin’ a pawful o’ junk on the ground an’ starin’ at it while belching!” He rapped his fist against his chest.

  “I’m as ‘ealthy as ever me was, surrounded by me good friends, an’ there’s nothin’ in the world I’m afraid of, nothin’ that can touch me, nothin’ that can—”

  He was interrupted by a loud cracking sound. Jon-Tom jumped involuntarily while Dormas backed up fast. Clothahump and Colin did not move. Only Sorbl’s marvelous eyes and reflexes, even though slightly numbed by his daily intake of alcohol, enabled him to react fast enough to shout a warning. He gestured with a wing and yelled, “Look out!”

  Mudge whirled, eyes wide. Very few creatures can move as fast as an otter. Even so, he wasn’t fast enough.

  The huge, rotten branch fell from near the top of the big fir he’d backed beneath, striking him on the back of the head and landing with a tremendous crash. Broken sub-branches, leaves, and dead twigs went flying in all directions. The fall was loud enough to echo several times off the surrounding hillsides. Everyone rushed toward the fallen otter except Clothahump. The wizard stood close by the rune-caster’s tools and looked on curiously.

  “Most interesting,” he murmured to no one in particular.

  “I was half inclined to agree with the otter’s charges of fakery, having known a multitude of witches and warlocks, sorcerers and spellsingers, and so-called casters but never one who actually could predict the future.”

  “You still don’t!” Jon-Tom yelled joyfully back to him as he bent over the otter’s prone form. Mudge’s feathered cap had been knocked off by the impact. It lay several feet away. Blood stained the fur on the back of the otter’s skull. But appearances, to Jon-Tom’s great relief, were deceiving.

  “He’s breathing. Sorbl, your hearing’s better than any of ours.”

  The owl nodded and put a pointed ear against the otter’s chest. When he looked up at the rest of them, he was smiling knowingly. “Beating like a celibate’s after a four-day orgy. He’s no more dead than I am.”

  “Let me have a look.” Colin slipped both arms under Mudge. Showing off the considerable strength in his compact body, he easily carried the unconscious otter back to where they’d been sitting when the branch had fallen. Jon-Tom hunted through the medicine pack on Dormas’s back and brought out a narrow bottle full of golden liquid.

  “Really,” said a distressed Sorbl, smacking his beak, “couldn’t you make do with some of the cheaper brand, Jon-Tom?”

  “Sorbl! I’m surprised at you!”

  “I mean,” the owl muttered, “it’s not as if he’s dead or anything.”

  What a crew, Jon-Tom mused as he bent over the motionless otter and let a few potent drops tumble into the open mouth. Mudge coughed, his body spasmed, a second cough, and he was sitting up sputtering. Jon-Tom was the first thing he saw.

  “Wot are you tryin’ to do, mate, drown me? Ohhhh.” Gingerly he touched the back of his head. “Crikey! It feels like somebody dropped a bloomin’ tree on me.”

  “Close enough, even if it wasn’t blooming,” Jon-Tom told him. Indeed, the branch that had struck the otter only a glancing blow was bigger in circumference than many of the smaller trees surrounding them.

  “Just nicked you, pilgrim.” Colin was inspecting the back of the otter’s head. “Fortunately. Like I said, rune reading’s not a precise art.”

  “I’ll give you a dose o’ precise, you walkin’ ‘airball.” He tried to lunge at the koala. The pain in his head held him back. When he touch
ed himself again, his hand came away covered in crimson. “I’m bleedin’ to death while you sit there and lecture me.”

  “Quit whining,” Dormas snapped. “Jon-Tom, there are bandages in the bottom of the medicine kit.” He nodded, rummaged around until he located a roll of sterilized linen, then began wrapping it around the otter’s head.

  “Ow! Take it easy back there, mate. That’s no steak you’re wrappin’, you know.”

  “I’m being as gentle as I can, Mudge.”

  “Likely, that is.” He glared at Colin. “I ain’t sure if I buy your whole story, guv’nor, but you’ve scored a point or two in its favor, that’s certain.”

  Colin sniffed. “You could have been killed, you poor excuse for a coat. I’d think you’d be giving thanks.”

  “You do, do you? If you’re such a hotsy-totsy reader o’ the future, ‘ow come you didn’t see that branch fixin’ to break? ‘Ow do we know you didn’t plan it that way?”

  “I don’t care for your implications, pilgrim. That blow’s affected your reasoning. Or maybe it hasn’t. In any case, how could I have known that you’d react to my prediction by retreating right underneath that tree?”

  “Use your head, Mudge,” Jon-Tom admonished him.

  “Not right now, mate, if you don’t mind. I admit I ain’t figured that one out yet.”

  “That’s about enough, water rat,” said Dormas firmly.

  “You’re pissing in the wind. Mr. Colin strikes me as a perfect gentleman. We should be glad to have him along.”

  “Speak for yourself, four-legs.”

  “Mudge, think a minute.” Jon-Tom split the end of the bandage and began knotting it around the otter’s forehead. “If Colin wanted to kill you, he could have laughed at you when the branch hit you on the head. He didn’t. His first reaction was identical to ours: He ran to try to help you.”

  “You bloody solicitors are all alike, just stinkin’ of logic an’ reasonableness. I’ve about ‘ad me fill of it—ouch, damn it!”

  “If you’d give your mouth a rest, your jaw muscles wouldn’t put so much of a strain on the back of your head.” He tied the knot firmly. “There. I thought that branch might’ve knocked some sense into you. I guess it would take a giant sequoia.”

  “What might that be?” Clothahump inquired.

  “An extremely large tree that comes from my world. Bigger than anything you’ve ever seen.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Once, in my younger days when I was traveling in southern lands, I—’

  “If you don’t mind,” said Mudge, “could we drop the botanical travelogue until we see if me ‘ead’s goin’ to fall off?”

  “I do not think we need fear for the integrity of your skull, Mudge, as opposed to, say, its contents.” Clothahump was regarding the injured otter benignly. “As has been demonstrated on more than one occasion, it is unquestionably the strongest part of your anatomy, having both the impermeability and density of solid lead.”

  “Right. ‘Ere I lie, wounded near to death, an’ instead o’ sympathy an’ compassion, I get insults.”

  “You could be dead, Mudge,” Jon-Tom told him again. “Colin’s reading might have been completely, instead of partially, accurate.”

  “Like your spellsingin’. Much more o’ that kind o’ good fortune an’ I’ll save the gods the trouble by cuttin’ me own throat.”

  Colin was recovering his runes, packing them just so in the center of the leather square. “Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I shouldn’t have cast and, having cast, should have said nothing.”

  “No. It wouldn’t have mattered,” Jon-Tom told him. “And I guess we were all a little bit suspicous of you.”

  Colin pulled the four corners of the leather together and secured them with his intricate series of knots. “It’s a sad day when a koala’s word is no longer believed.”

  “With the fate of an unknown portion of the cosmos at stake,” Clothahump said, “you must concede a little caution on our part.”

  “Your caution? What about me? What proof do I have that you’re a wizard or that the tall, bald body is a spellsinger?”

  “I drove off your captors, remember?”

  “I remember hearing a sound so awful, it made me wish for the fire at the time. That’s not magic, that’s torture.”

  It was worth the bruise to Jon-Tom’s ego to hear Mudge laugh again.

  “So I don’t sound like Nat King Cole, but I’m not that bad.”

  Clothahump frowned. “I do not recognize the line. What kingdom does he reign over?”

  “The kingdom of scat,” Jon-Tom replied impatiently. “Look, are we in a hurry or not?”

  “We are indeed. We should move.”

  “Sure, why not?” groused Mudge. “The sooner we get there, the sooner we’ll all be lyin’ quiet in our graves. Fine bunch to be off tryin’ to save the world! A wizard who knows where the enemy lies, more or less. A reader o’ the future who knows wot’s goin’ to ‘appen, more or less. An’ let’s not forget a spellsinger who can conjure up the means to defend us from wotever we may face—more or less. ‘Ow could a poor tagalong like me be anything but confident about the outcome?”

  “That’s the spirit, Mudge,” Jon-Tom told him. “It’s good to know that if we get overconfident about anything, you’ll be right there with your undying pessimism to get us back on track.”

  “You can be sure o’ that, mate.” He scanned the ground nearby. “Hey, where’s me cap?”

  “I’ll get it.” Sorbl half flew, half hopped over to the giant fir, hunted around the sides of the fallen branch for a moment, then returned with something limp and green hi his beak. This he passed to Mudge.

  “Sorry. I’m afraid it was partly under the branch. Better it than you.”

  Mudge held the smashed fragment of green felt out in front of him. “Now, ain’t that a sorry sight?” He ran two fingers along the sides of the single feather, trying to fluff it out. “A quetzal tail plume, bought at the top o’ the matin’ season too. Do you ‘ave any idea ‘ow much a quetzal charges for one o’ its mating plumes?”

  “I’m surprised he would sell one,” Colin commented.

  “ ‘E were broker than ‘e were ‘orny,” Mudge explained. “Wearin’ one’s supposed to confer exceptional virility and stamina on the part o’ the wearer—not that I believe in any o’ those primitive arboreal’s superstitions, o’ course.”

  “Then why are you crying?” Jon-Tom asked him.

  “Cryin”? Wot, me? Cor, I’m just washin’ out me eyes. ‘Tis just that if one did ‘appen to believe in those superstitions, well, the condition o’ one’s works is supposedly dependent on the condition o’ the feather.”

  “Oh. Well, there aren’t any ladies around here to court in any event.”

  “And a damn good thing too.” Sadly the otter plucked the demolished feather from his cap and tossed it aside. “Maybe ‘tis for the best. I’m not likely to be distracted along the way—not that we’re likely to encounter any worthwhile distractions.”

  “So that’s settled.” Jon-Tom hefted his pack. “Let’s be going. Now, Mudge. Mudge? Come on.”

  But the otter was holding back, sampling the air.

  “I smell it, too, otter,” said Dormas. She had her head tilted back and her muzzle high in the air.

  “Smell what?” Jon-Tom asked.

  “Something burning, mate.”

  “I do not smell it yet,” said Clothahump, “but the air is decidedly warmer, and I fear not from the sudden onset of an early spring, Sorbl, have a look.”

  “Yes, Master.” Spreading his great wings, the owl rose from his perch on Dormas’s back and climbed rapidly.

  The rest of them stood and waited, watching the only airborne member of their little party as he circled higher and higher above them.

  “I can smell it now too,” Jon-Tom murmured. “It’s strong, but there’s something else about it. I can’t say what.”

  “Maybe Sorbl can tell us,” Dormas ventured. The wizard�
�s famulus had folded his wings and was dropping like a stone toward them. At the last possible instant he spread his wings, braked, and landed on the ninny’s back. He did not look worried; he looked terrified.

  “We’re trapped,” he informed them in a shaky voice, “doomed. This time there is no way out.”

  “Come now,” Clothahump prompted him, unperturbed, “there is always a way out. We have proven that in the past, and we shall prove it as often as necessary in the future. What did you see?”

  “F-fire,” the owl stammered.

  “Fine. Fire. From which direction is it advancing?”

  “From everywhere, Master. From all directions.”

  Something wasn’t kosher here, Jon-Tom told himself. Even if they were completely surrounded by a forest fire of as yet unknown dimensions, Sorbl ought not to be concerned for himself. Surely he could soar to safety.

  “What was burning?” he asked the famulus. “The woods?”

  “The woods, the ground, everything but the air itself,” the owl told him. “The whole world is on fire.”

  “You are not making sense, apprentice,” Clothahump snapped at him. “It is not the first time.”

  “Truly, Master, everything burns.”

  Jon-Tom was standing on tiptoes, turning a slow circle and scanning the various horizons. The air temperature continued to rise. But there was no smoke to be seen in any direction. Even if Sorbl was greatly exaggerating and only a small grove was ablaze, they should still be able to see some smoke.

  And why should he exaggerate?

  “Somebody’s eyes are deceiving them,” Dormas muttered. “How can the world burn without sending up smoke?”

  “A perturbation.” Clothahump was fumbling through the drawers in his plastron, searching for a particular vial. He was sure he’d stored it securely in the compartment closest to his left armpit—maybe down nearer knee level. “I suspect it approaches from the south. The all-encompassing perturbations usually begin quite far from the perambulator itself.”

  “So we’re to be incinerated.” Mudge sat down heavily. “A short reprieve, that.”