The Paths of the Perambulator: A Spellsinger Adventure (Book Five)

by Alan Dean Foster

  “Which is no indication that he hasn’t experienced a change of heart,” the wizard argued. “I think your confidence is badly misplaced, my boy.”

  “Well, I disagree. Mudge and I understand each other.” He turned and raised his voice. “Don’t we, Mudge?”

  The otter looked up, ostentatiously chewing the fruits of his labors, and eyed the tall young man quizzically. “Don’t we wot, mate?”

  “Understand one another. I was just telling Clothahump that if I fell down to die in the snow, you’d drag or carry me to safety.”

  “Why, o’ course I would! Wot are mates for if they can’t depend on one another? I’d pull you until the soles wore out o’ me boots a’ me ‘ands were raw a’ bleedi’ from the effort o’ draggi’ your oversize skinny carcass back to civilization. I’d get you to warmth and nursi’ at the risk o’ me own life. I’d haul and haul until—”

  “Don’t overdo it, Mudge.”

  “Right, mate.” The otter turned back to his remaining unopened victuals.

  “You see?” Jon-Tom told the wizard. Clothahump smiled back at him.

  “And, of course, the otter has never lied to you.”

  “Oh, he’s fudged the truth a little now and then, but when the chips are down, Mudge is up.”

  “Hmph! Up and away, I should say.”

  Silence took up a stance between them. Just as well, or Jon-Tom might have said something disrespectful to the old magic-maker. Of course, Mudge meant what he said! He was a faithful companion and good friend. He found himself glancing ever so surreptitiously in the otter’s direction and was ashamed to confess that Clothahump’s pessimism had started him to thinking unflattering thoughts about the otter.

  He finished his cup of tea angrily.

  The following morning revealed a northern landscape filled with towering, snow-clad peaks. Jon-Tom stared at the precipitous crags, asked dubiously, “We’re not going to have to go up into that, are we?”

  Clothahump shaded his eyes as he considered the terrain confronting them. “I don’t know, my boy. I have traced the perambulator this far, but it is difficult to ascertain its location with absolute precision. We can only continue to follow the line that lies between it and the home tree. I only hope its prison is accessible to us.”

  “And wot if she ain’t, guv’nor?” Mudge was more surefooted than any of them, but even he had no stomach for challenging the mountains that lay in front of them. “We turn back for ’ome a’ ’ope that everything turns out for the best?”

  “Nothing turns out for the best, my furry friend, unless you strive to make it do so. Hope is no substitution for hard work. Wherever the perambulator is being held, that is where we must go. Somehow.” He led them onward.

  Those towering peaks and sheer granite walls still lay a long way ahead of them. It was possible that they would encounter the perambulator and its captor long before any real climbing was necessary. Everyone hoped so. Jon-Tom could only gaze on the wizard with new admiration. While everyone was complaining about the possibility that they might have to do some difficult climbing, no one had remarked on the fact that of them all, Clothahump was the least equipped to do so.

  Several days more brought no sign that they were any closer to their goal, but it did present them with a new challenge: fog. No more than ever they had to rely on Clothahump to guide them, for in the thick, cloying grayness Sorbl could not fly and scout out the easiest path ahead.

  Mudge sniffed endlessly, nervously, at the damp, moist air. “Never did care much for this stuff. There’s them that think it romantic. Me, I says that’s tallywabble. ’Ow’s a person supposed to watch out for ’imself in this gray crap?”

  “Reminds me of movies I’ve seen of the Golden Gate, in San Francisco.”

  That piqued the otter’s interest and raised his spirits as well. “A gate made out o’ gold! That’s the first reference you’ve made to your world that interests me, mate. Maybe she ain’t as bad a place to live as you make it out to be.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you, but the gate I’m referring to isn’t made out of gold. That’s just a name given to it because of how it looks at certain times of day.”

  “Oh, that’s the case, is it? Doesn’t compare to the jeweled gate of Motaria, then? Pity. As for Motaria, I’ve ’eard tales that say…” And he proceeded to spin the story without having to be prompted by Jon-Tom. When he finally ran out of words, the fog was thicker than ever.

  They walked on in silence. Mudge kept sniffing the air, searching the dampness for suggestions of possible danger, when the discordant mumbling from off to his right finally made him search out his tall friend once more.

  “Look, mate, I don’t mind you practici’ your spellsingin’, but I’d be obliged if you could do it a mite more quietly.”

  Jon-Tom didn’t look at him. He was scanning the forest, what he could see of it through the fog. “I haven’t been spellsinging, Mudge. In fact, I was just going to ask you to be quiet.”

  “Me? I ’aven’t so much as—”

  “Nobody can hear themselves think over all that damned sniffing of yours. But I think I hear something else.”

  Mudge frowned but stood quietly, save for one involuntary sniff. His gaze narrowed slightly. “Blimey, you’re right, mate. I ’eard bad singi’ for sure, but it weren’t you.” Dormas had trotted over to join them. She stood next to Jon-Tom, her nose held high to sample the air, her ears cocked alertly forward.

  “I hear it, too, boys. Some kind of singing or chanting. Think I can smell something also.”

  “What species?” Clothahump’s eyes and ears were neither as sharp as Mudge’s nor as sensitive as Dormas’s. Besides which, he was fully occupied with trying to keep moisture from congealing on his glasses. He wiped them with a cloth as he stared into the fog.

  “Rodentia, I think.” Dormas inhaled deeply. “There’s so much water in the air, it’s tough to say.”

  “Right about that, lass. Take a deep whiff and ’tis like blowi’ your nose backwards.”

  Jon-Tom made a face. “Your gift for metaphor is as effervescent as ever, Mudge.”

  “I ’ope that’s as dirty as it sounds, mate.”

  “More than one of them, whoever they are.” The ninny’s nostrils flexed. Jon-Tom was acutely conscious of his olfactory inadequacies. Compared to any one of his companions, he was virtually scent-blind.

  “Any idea how many of them there might be?” Clothahump asked her.

  “Can’t say. Don’t matter, anyways, does it?” She glanced down at him. “We’re not headed in that direction.”

  “We cannot be certain which route we will employ to return.” The wizard considered the tantalizing fog thoughtfully. “I confess to curiosity. I should like to know through whose territory we have been traveling.” Behind him, Sorbl let out a groan.

  “Me too,” avowed Dormas.

  Mudge eyed first the hinny, then Clothahump in disbelief. “Wot’s with you two? Remember, curiosity killed the cat.”

  “Not anybody I know.” Dormas started into the trees, dropped her head to sniff the damp ground ahead of them.

  “We are far from Ospenspri, far north of any civilized town.” Clothahump put his glasses back on his beak. They immediately began to fog up again. “There can, however, be habitation without civilization. I have heard many tales of the wild tribes that are said to infest these infrequently visited north woods. It would be useful to obtain some firsthand knowledge of their ways.”

  “Why don’t you just read a bleedi’ book about ’em, guv’nor?”

  “There is little to read, my water-loving fuzz-brain.” The wizard moved to follow in Dormas’s wake. “Few explorers come this way. They prefer the warmlands or the tropics. We have a unique opportunity here.”

  “Aye, to become some shithead rat’s dinner.” Mudge looked up at Jon-Tom. “You see the wisdom in me words, don’t you, lad?”

  “I see that wisdom is not gained without risks.” Clothahump smiled approvingl
y at him. “Sorry, Mudge.” He stepped forward to join the other two.

  “You’re all bloody fools—not that that’s the surprise o’ the year.” The frustrated otter folded his arms and held his ground. What really made him angry was that they were ignoring him. He didn’t mind being screamed at, yelled at, or insulted, but when those whose opinion differed from his acted as though he didn’t exist, he wanted to stab something. Given his present company, however, even that release was denied to him. His knife couldn’t dent Clothahump’s shell, Jon-Tom would sense him coming, and Dormas’s arse was too high.

  So he drew his short sword and relieved some of his frustration by hacking a nearby bush to pieces.

  Jon-Tom, Dormas, and Clothahump continued to ignore their apoplectic companion. They were too busy trying to identify the source of the mysterious, eerie chanting that floated through the woods. It seemed as if it were being carried along by the fog itself, rising and falling, the cadence distinctive, the words unrecognizable.

  “An ancient language,” the wizard commented, “doubtless handed down from chanter to chanter. It may be that those who sing no longer know the meaning of the words but continue to recite them because they believe they have power.”

  Jon-Tom was no linguist, but even he could sense the age of the chants. They seemed to consist largely of grunts and groans, of the kinds of sounds animals would make: animals incapable of reason and speech and higher thought. A tribal legacy retained from a precivilized past. No wonder Clothahump was interested in the people who would make such sounds. He glanced back over a shoulder.

  “Mudge, you’re the best stalker among us. Why don’t you lead the way?”

  Having demolished the bush and returned his sap-stained sword to its scabbard, the otter resolutely turned his back on them. “Not me, guv’nor. Go stick your neck into the pot if you want to, but I’m stayi’ ’ere.”

  “Leave the water rat be,” Clothahump told his tall human charge. “We shall advance without him. If naught else, our approach will be quieter. Dormas, can you still smell them?”

  “Faintly. It’ll get stronger as we get closer. Maybe this damn fog will lift a little too.”

  They started forward. Sorbl rose from his perch to settle on the top of Dormas’s pack. Mudge looked at the owl in surprise.

  “Sorbl? You’re not goin’, too, mate?”

  “I have no choice.” The apprentice looked back at him. “I must go where my master goes.”

  “Don’t worry, Mudge,” Jon-Tom told him. “We’ll be back in a little while. You can stay here and guard the campsite.”

  “Wot? All by meself?” The otter gazed warily into the impenetrable, claustrophobic fog. He made a growling sound in his throat as he spoke to Jon-Tom. “You think you’re bloomi’ clever, don’t you, you ’airless son of an ape? You know I ain’t likely to squat ’ere on me fundament in this stinki’ fog without anyone to watch me back.”

  “Frankly I don’t care what you do, you spineless offspring of a cottonmouth, but if you’re coming with us, get up here and make yourself useful.”

  Having concluded this exchange of pleasantries and having reavowed their undying friendship, Mudge joined Jon-Tom in leading the way. In fact, the otter took the lead, professing a desire to keep as far from his tall friend as possible.

  Clothahump looked approvingly at his guest. “You are learning, my boy, that words are more useful than weapons.”

  “What do you expect from somebody in law school? I’ve known Mudge long enough to know what buttons to push. He would’ve come along, anyway. He just likes to make it look like he’s been forced.”

  “Don’t be too sure of your ability to manipulate him. Otters are an unpredictable lot. One thing I would never count on is for him to act in a predictable fashion.”

  “Overconfidence on my part where Mudge is concerned isn’t something you need to worry yourself about, sir.”

  They ascended a gentle slope, crossed a ravine, and climbed the heavily wooded far side. As they neared the crest of the ridge the chanting grew much louder. In addition to the voices they could now make out the sounds produced by individual drums, reed flutes, and something that sounded like an acerbic tambourine. Mudge motioned for silence, unnecessarily. It was clear they were very near the source of the singing. The time for conversation was past. It was time to listen and to observe.

  Then they were able to see over the ridge. They found themselves looking down into a small valley. Set among the trees were semipermanent angular huts fashioned of twigs, branches, and mud. Fires danced in rock pits in front of two or three of the buildings. Laboriously gathered vegetation had been laid out to dry next to the flames. Berries of many kinds, nuts, and the thin, tender heart of some unknown plant were constantly being turned and patted clean by the females of several species.

  “I see some ground squirrels,” Jon-Tom whispered. “I don’t recognize the ones with the small round ears.”

  “Pikas.” Clothahump was squinting through his glasses. “The big fat ones are marmots. Notice their attire.”

  Regardless of species, all were scantily clad in primitive garments. With their thick coats of fur, none required heavy outer clothing to protect them from the cold. Decorative skirts had been fashioned of tree bark pounded thin and softened with water. There was an extraordinary variety of headgear, ranging from simple headbands to elaborate tiaras of dried seeds and animal bones.

  Away from the transitory village and off to the right, a group of musicians sat in a semicircle pounding or tootling or rattling their instruments. Seated in the semicircle opposing them were the chanters. These included all the senior males. They were dressed like warriors. In addition to their decorative necklaces and rings they wore headpieces made from the bleached, hollowed-out skulls of other creatures. Nor were all the gruesome chapeaus fashioned from the bones of prey animals.

  “Crikey,” Mudge murmured in realization, “they’re a bloody lot o’ cannibals.”

  In the center of the two semicircles was a wooden platform surmounted by a single post. A trio of barbarically clad pikas tended a fire beneath it. They were careful not to let the flames rise high enough to threaten the wood. The purpose of the blaze was to produce as much smoke as possible in order to make life as difficult as possible for the single leather-clad individual who was tied to the pole above. This the pikas achieved by feeding the flames a steady diet of damp leaves and bark.

  The unfortunate prisoner was wearing snakeskin pants and shirt, leather boots, and fingerless leather gloves. Brass spikes studded his clothing from the top of the short boots to the broad shoulders. Jon-Tom was unable to tell just from looking whether these bits of metal were designed to serve for decoration or defense. Among some warlike people they did double duty.

  Around a considerable waist the prisoner wore a brass-studded belt. A matching collar girdled his neck. He was about four and a half feet tall, though he appeared shorter because he was bent over as much as his bonds would permit, coughing and wheezing, unable to avoid inhaling the thick black smoke that rose from beneath him.

  A hook hammered into one corner of the platform supported a large knapsack fashioned of the same black leather the prisoner wore. It bulged with unseen objects. Tied to it was a thin saber that was nearly as tall as the prisoner himself.

  From time to time a light breeze would disturb the fog long enough for the hidden spectators to get a decent view of the prisoner. His face and large furry ears were instantly recognizable. Species identification was as easy as it was surprising.

  “What’s he doing here?” Jon-Tom asked of no one in particular. “I thought koalas preferred tropical climes. I haven’t encountered one anywhere in the Bellwoods.”

  “They are not frequent visitors to our part of the world, it is true.” Clothahump was straining for a better view of the prisoner. “Certainly this one is a long way from his home, though he is not dressed improperly for this climate.”

  “The poor slob.” Donnas sni
ffed sympathetically. “Wonder what he did to get himself taken prisoner and subjected to such treatment?”

  “Probably just trespassing.” Mudge started to inch his way backward. “Right. We’ve seen enough to satisfy any aberrant biological curiosity. Now ’tis time to leave, right?”

  “Wrong. Their intentions are pretty damn clear. They’re going to slowly suffocate him. No one deserves that kind of death.”

  “’Ow do you know that, mate? Maybe this one’s committed some kind o’ heinous crime against this lot o’ savages. Maybe ’e’s been fairly judged and condemned. Wot ’ave I told you about tryi’ to foist your moral precepts on other folk?” He nodded toward the encampment. “Look at ’ow ’e’s dressed, will you? A rough bloke for sure. Me, I says they deserve each other.”

  “If he’s guilty of some crime, I’d like to know about it,” Jon-Tom responded. “If not, we’d be morally derelict to let him die slowly like that. I’d like to think a passing traveler might do as much for me someday.”

  “Not bloody likely,” the otter grumbled. “I thought you’d been ’ere long enough to know better than that, mate.”

  “I would very much like to know his story,” Clothahump declared. “Not only how he comes to find himself in this dangerous situation but also how he comes to be in this lonely part of the world in the first place.”

  “That’s fine, that is! I should’ve stayed back at the camp.”

  “Mudge, where’s your concern for your fellow being?”

  “In me left ’ip pocket, where it belongs. As for that, those ’appy dirge drippers down there are as much me fellows as that armored fat bear. I ain’t enamored o’ their table manners, but that doesn’t mean I’m about to risk me own arse to try and rescue some other fool’s.”

  Jon-Tom turned his attention back to the encampment. It was clear that the prisoner was rapidly becoming too weak even to cough. “We have to do something.”