The Day of the Dissonance

by Alan Dean Foster

  “Why not her? For one thing she’s already depelted.”

  “Oh, no you don’t.” Folly braced herself against the bare granite wall, as far from Grelgen as she could get.

  “You just try and touch me! I’ll squash you like a bug.”

  Grelgen looked disgusted, waved her wand almost indifferently, and whispered something under her breath.

  Folly leaped away from the wall, clutching her backside.

  The stone had become red-hot.

  “Might as well resign yourself to it, girl,” said Grelgen.

  “You’re on this morning’s menu and that’s all there is to it. If there’s anything that gets my gall it’s an uncooperative breakfast.”

  “Please,” Jon-Tom pleaded with her, dropping to his knees to be nearer eye level with their tormentor. “We mean you no harm. We only came into your lands to ask you for some information.”

  “Sorry. Like I said, we’ve got the craving, and when it comes upon us we’ve got to have meat.”

  “But why us?” Mudge asked her. “These woods must be full o’ lizards and snakes enough to supply your ‘ole village.”

  “Food doesn’t wander into our custody,” she snapped at him. “We don’t like hunting. And the forest creatures don’t stage unprovoked assaults on our person.”

  “Blimey,” Mudge muttered. “‘Ow can such small ‘eads be so bloomin’ dense? I told you that were an accident!”

  Grelgen stared silently at him as she tapped one tiny glass slipper with her wand. Jon-Tom absently noted that the slipper was three sizes too small for her not-so-tiny foot.

  “Don’t give me any trouble. I’m in a disagreeable mood as it is.” She whistled up a group of helpers and they started through one archway toward Folly. Her initial defiance burned out of her, she hid behind Roseroar.

  Jon-Tom knew that wouldn’t save her.

  “Look,” he said desperately, trying to stall for time as he swung the duar into playing position and tried to think of something to sing, “you said that meat isn’t usually what you eat, that you only have this craving for it occasionally?”

  “What about it?” Grelgen snapped impatiently.

  “What do you eat normally? Besides what you told me earlier.”

  “Milk and honey, nectar and ambrosia, pollen and sugar sap. What else would fairy folk eat?”

  “So that’s it. I had a hunch.” A surge of hope rushed through him.

  “What’s it?” she asked, frowning at him.

  He sat down and crossed his legs, set the duar aside. “I don’t suppose there are any professional dieticians in the village?”

  “Any what?”

  “No, of course not. See, all your problems are diet-related. It not only explains your unnatural craving for protein, it also explains your, uh, unusually rotound figures. Milk’s okay, but the rest of that stuff is nothing but pure sugar. I mean, I can’t even imagine how many calories there are in a daily dose of ambrosia. You probably use a lot of glucose when you’re flying, but when you stop flying, well, the problem only compounds itself.”

  One of the Elder fairies waiting impatiently behind Grelgen now stepped forward. “What is this human raving about?”

  Grelgen pushed him back. “It doesn’t matter.” She turned back to Jon-Tom. “What you say makes no sense, and it wouldn’t matter if it did, because we still have our craving.” She started to aim her wand at the trembling Folly. “No use in trying to hide, girl. Step out here where I can see you.”

  Jon-Tom leaned sideways to block her aim. “Wait! You’ve got to listen to me. Don’t you see? If you’d only change your eating habits you’d lose this craving for protein.”

  “We’re not interested in changing our eating habits,” said another of the Elders. “We like nectar and honey and ambrosia.”

  “All right, all right!” Jon-Tom said frantically. “Then there’s only one way out. The only other way to reduce your craving for protein is for you to start burning off all these extra ounces you’ve been accumulating. You’ve got to break the cycle.” He picked up the duar.

  “At least give me a chance to help you. Maybe I can’t do it with spellsinging, but there are all kinds of magic.”

  “Consider carefully, man,” Grelgen warned him. “Don’t you think we’re aware that we have a little problem? Don’t you think we’ve tried to use our own magic to solve it?”

  “But none of you is a spellsinger.”

  “No. That’s not our kind of magic. But we’ve tried everything. We’re stuck with what we are. Your spellsinging can’t help us. Nothing can help us. We’ve experimented with every type of magic known to the enchanted folk, as well as that employed by the magic-workers of the greater world. We’re trapped by our own metabolisms.” She rolled up her sleeves. “Now let’s get on with this without any more bullshitting, okay?” She raised the wand again.

  “Just one chance, just give me one chance!” he pleaded.

  She swung the wand around to point it at him, and he flinched. “I’m warning you, buster, if this is some sort of trick, you’ll cook before her.”

  “There’s one kind of magic I don’t think you’ve tried.”

  She made a rude noise. “Worm dung! We’ve tried it all.”

  “Even aerobics?”

  Grelgen opened her mouth, then closed it. She turned to conference with the Elders. Jon-Tom waited nervously.

  Finally she stuck her head out of the pile and inquired almost reluctantly, “What strange sort of magic is this?”

  Jon-Tom took a deep breath and rose. Putting aside the duar, he began stripping to the waist.

  Roseroar came over to whisper in his ear. “Suh, are yo preparin’ some trick ah should know about? Should ah be ready with mah swords?”

  “No, Roseroar. No tricks.”

  She shrugged and moved away, shaking her head.

  Jon-Tom started windmilling his arms, loosening up.

  Grelgen immediately retreated several steps and raised the wand threateningly. “All you need is to learn this magic,” he said brightly. “A regular program of aerobics. Not only will it reduce your unnatural craving for protein, it should bring back your old aerodynamic figures.”

  “What does that mean?” asked one of the younger fairies.

  “It means we’ll be able to fly again, stupid,” replied one of the Elders as he jabbed the questioner in the ribs.

  “Fly again.” The refrain was taken up by the rest of the crowd.

  “It’s a trick!” snapped Grelgen, but the weight of opinion (so to speak) was against her.

  “All right.” She tucked her wand under one arm and glared up at Jon-Tom. “You get your chance, man. If this is a trick to buy time, it better be good, because it’s going to be your last one.”

  “It’s no trick,” Jon-Tom assured her, feeling the sweat starting to trickle from beneath his arms. And he hadn’t even begun yet.

  “Look, I’m no Richard Simmons, but I can see we need to start with the basics.” He was aware he had the undivided attention of several hundred sets of eyes. He took a deep breath, thankful for the morning runs which kept him in decent condition. “We’re going to start with some deep knee-bends. Hands on hips. . . watch those wings, that’s it. Ready.” He hesitated. “This would work better if we had some music.”

  Grelgen grunted, turned, and barked a command. There was a brief delay. Several small figures made their way through the enchanted mob and took up positions atop the stone wall. Each carried a delicate instrument. There were a couple of flutes, a set of drums, and something that resembled a xylophone which had been in a bad traffic accident.

  “What should we play?” piped one of the minuscule musicians.

  “Something lively.”

  “A dance or roundelet?” They discussed the matter among themselves, then launched into a lively tune with faintly oriental overtones. Jon-Tom waited until he was sure of the rhythm, then smiled at his attentive if uncertain audience.

  “Ready? Let
’s begin! Imitate me.” He dipped. “Come on, it’s not hard. One, two, three, and bend; one, two, three, and bend;. . . that’s it!”

  While Jon-Tom’s companions looked on, several hundred fairy folk struggled to duplicate the human’s movements. Before too long, groans and moans all out of proportion to the size of the throats they came from filled the air.

  Grelgen was gasping and sweating. Her orange chiffon gown was soaked. “You’re sure that you’re not actually trying to murder us?”

  “Oh, no.” Jon-Tom was breathing a little hard himself.

  “See, this isn’t an instantaneous kind of magic. It takes time.” He sat down and put his hands behind his neck, wondering how far he could go before Grelgen gave up.

  “Now, this kind of magic is called sirups. Up, down, up, down . . . you in the back there, no slacking, now. . . up, down. . .”

  He worried constantly that Grelgen and her colleagues would become impatient before the new exercise regimen had time to do its work. He needn’t have worried. The enchanted folk took weight off as rapidly as they put it on.

  By the second day the most porcine of the villagers could boast of shrunken waistlines. By the third the effects were being felt by all, and by the fourth even Grelgen could stay airborne for short flights.

  “I don’t understand, mate,” said Kludge. “You said it ‘tweren’t magic, yet see ‘ow quick-like they’re shrinkin’ down!”

  “It’s their metabolic rate. They burn calories much faster than we do, and as soon as they get down to where they can fly again, the burning accelerates.”

  The results were reflected in Grelgen’s changing attitude. As the exercises did their work, her belligerence softened. Not that she became all sweetness and light, but her gratitude was evident.

  “A most wondrous gift you have given us, man. A new kind of magic.” It was the morning of the fifth day of their captivity and a long time since any of the enchanted folk had suggested having one of their guests for supper.

  “I have a confession to make. It’s not magic. It’s only exercise.”

  “Call it by whatever name you wish,” she replied, “it is magic to us. We are starting to look like the enchanted folk once more. Even I,” she finished proudly. She did a deep knee-bend to prove it, something she couldn’t have imagined doing five days earlier. Of course, she did it while hovering in midair, which made it somewhat easier.

  Still, the accomplishment was undeniable.

  “You are free to go,” she told them.

  Roseroar stepped forward and cautiously thrust out a paw. The invisible wall of fire which had kept them imprisoned had vanished, leaving behind only a little lingering heat. The tigress stepped easily over the tiny stone wall.

  “Our gratitude is boundless,” Grelgen went on. “You said you came to us for help.” She executed a neat little pirouette in the air, delighting in her rediscovered mobility.

  “What is it you wish to know?”

  “We need directions to a certain town,” he told her. “A, place called Crancularn.”

  “Ah. An ambiguous destination. Not mine to why. Wait here.” She flew toward the village, droning a wasp, and returned several minutes later with four newh slimmed Elders. They settled on the wall. Between them, the four Elders held a piece of parchment six inches square. It was the biggest piece of writing material the village could produce.

  “Crancularn, you said?” Jon-Tom nodded at her.

  She rolled up the sleeves of her burgundy-and-lime dress, waved the wand over the parchment as she spoke.

  The parchment twisted like a leaf in the wind. It continued to quiver as a line of gold appeared on its surface, tracing the outlines of mountains and rivers, trails, and paths.

  None of them led directly toward the golden diamond that shone brightly in the upper-lefthand corner of the parchment.

  Grelgen finished the incantation. The parchment ceased its shaking, allowing the concentrating Elders to relax their grip. Jon-Tom picked the freshly inscribed map off the grass. It was warm to the touch. One tiny spot not far from a minor trail fluoresced brightly.

  “The glow shows you where you are at any time,”

  Grelgen informed him. “It will travel as you travel. Hold fast to the map and you will never be lost.” She rose on diaphanous wings to hover near his shoulder and trace over the map with her wand. “See? No easy journey from here and no trails directly to the place.”

  “We’re told Crancularn moves about.”

  “So it does. It has that characteristic. But the map will take you there, never fear. This is the cartography of what will be as well as of what is. A useful skill which we rarely employ. We like it where we are.”

  Jon-Tom thanked her as he folded the map and slipped it carefully into a pocket of his indigo shirt.

  Grelgen hovered nearby. “Tell me, man. Why do you go to Crancularn?”

  “To shop for something in the Shop of the Aether and Neither.”

  She nodded, a grave expression on her tiny face.

  “We’ve heard many rumors,” he went on. “Is there something dangerous about the shop?”

  “Indeed there is, man. Included among its usual inventory is a large supply of the Truth. That is something most travelers seek to avoid, not to find. Beware what purchases you make. There are bonuses and discounts to be had in that place you may not find to your liking.”

  “We’ll watch our step,” he assured her.

  She nodded solemnly. “Watch your hearts and souls as well. Good luck to you, man, and to your companions. Perhaps if you return by a similar route we can show you the Cloud Dance.” She looked wistful. “I may even participate myself.”

  “Dancing in the air isn’t as difficult as dancing on the ground,” said Folly.

  Grelgen grinned at her. “That depends on what you’re doing in the air, infant.” With great dignity she pivoted and led the four Elders back to the village.

  They were free, Jon-Tom knew, and so again were the enchanted folk.

  XII

  The map led them out of the narrow defile that was the enchanted canyon. Music and rhythmic grunts followed them as they left behind a village full of fairies aerobicizing like mad. Grelgen had a long way to go before she looked like Jane Fonda but she was determined to out perform her subjects, and Jon-Tom didn’t doubt she had the willpower to do so.

  Several days’ march through game-filled country brought them over the highest mountain pass and down onto the western slopes. Despite Grelgen’s insistence that the journey the rest of the way to Cranculam would not be easy, they were beginning to relax. Since leaving behind the enchanted village they had encountered no dangerous animals or sapients, and food was plentiful.

  Ahead lay the desert. Jon-Tom felt certain they could cross it in a couple of days. All was well.

  No more bad dreams bothered him, and he awoke refreshed and at ease. Fallen leaves had made a comfortable, springy bed. They were now back into deciduous forest, having left most of the evergreen woods behind.

  He pushed his cape aside. A few wisps of smoke still rose from the remains of last night’s fire. Roseroar snored softly on the far side of the embers while Mudge dozed nearby. That in itself was unusual. Normally the otter woke first.

  Jon-Tom scanned the rest of the camp and sat up fast.

  “Jalwar? Folly!”

  The woods did not answer, nor did anyone else.

  He climbed to his feet, called again. His shouts roused Mudge and Roseroar.

  “Wot’s amiss, mate?”

  Jon-Tom gestured at the campsite. “See for yourself.”

  Mudge inspected the places where the missing pair had slept. “They aren’t off ‘untin’ for breakfast berries. All their gear’s gone.”

  “Could they have been carried off?” Jon-Tom muttered.

  “Why would anybody bother to sneak in softly and steal that pair away while leavin’ us snug and in dreamland?” Roseroar said. “Makes no sense.”

  “You’re right
, it doesn’t. So they left on their own, and with a stealthiness that implies premeditation.”

  “What?” she growled in confusion.

  “Sorry. My legal training talking. It means they planned to sneak out. Don’t ask me why.”

  “Which way would they go?”

  “Maybe there’s a town nearby. I’ll check the map.” He reached into his pocket, grasped air. A frantic, brief search proved that the map was well and truly gone.

  “Mudge, did you. . . ?”

  The otter shook his head, his whiskers bristling in anger.

  “You never gave it to me, guv’nor. I saw you put it up yourself.” He sighed, sat down on a rock, and adjusted his cap, leaning the feather down at its usual rakish angle.

  “Can’t say as ‘ow I’m surprised. That Corroboc might ‘ave been a class-one bastard, but ‘e knew wot ‘e were about when ‘e named that girl.”

  “Ah’ve been suspicious of her motives from the beginning,” Roseroar added. “We should have sold the little bitch in Snarken, when we had the chance.”

  Jon-Tom found himself staring northwestward, through the thinning forest toward the distant desert. “It doesn’t make sense. And what about Jalwar? He’s gone, too, and that makes even less sense. How can he get anywhere without our help and protection?”

  Mudge came and stood next to his friend, put a comforting paw on his shoulder. “Ah, lad. ‘Ave you learned so little o’ life since you’ve been in this world? Who knows wot old Jalwar promised the girl? ‘E’s a trader, a merchant. Obviously ‘e made ‘er a better offer than anything we ‘ave. Maybe ‘e were bein’ marooned on that beach by ‘onest folk ‘e’d cheated. This ain’t no world for takin’ folks on faith, me friend. For all we know Jalwar’s a rich old bugger in ‘is ‘ome town.”

  “If he wanted Folly to help him, why would they take the map? They wouldn’t need it to retrace the trail back to Snarken.”

  “Then it’s pretty clear they ain’t ‘eadin’ for Snarken, mate.” He turned and stared down the barely visible path.

  “And we ought to be able to prove it.”

  Sure enough, in the dew-moistened earth beyond the campsite the two sets of footprints stood out clearly, the small, almost dainty marks of Jalwar sharp beside Folly’s sandalprints. They led downslope toward the desert.