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

by Alan Dean Foster

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

  “I can see it now.” Jon-Tom pointed toward the southwest, and all eyes turned in that direction.

  The flames came marching over the line of trees, engulfing everything in their path. The fire was like a moving wall. There were no gaps, no cool spaces where a desperate runner might slip through to freedom. Above the advancing wall the sky was alive with darting, dancing fireballs. They could hear the crackle and roar clearly, the rising susurration of a combustible choir. And still there was not a puff of smoke to be seen.

  “Far out,” Jon-Tom whispered. He was starting to sweat.

  Now the conflagration was close enough for them to see that the rocks themselves were burning. Each bit of gravel, each smooth-shouldered boulder burst forth with orange-red streamers. Jon-Tom was dimly aware that behind them Clothahump was holding both hands in the air and reciting a rapid-fire sequence of ancient words.

  Moving with preternatural speed, the flames swept down on them. The heat was intense but not volcanic. No one’s clothes burst into flames on his body. No one collapsed from sucking in a single hot, suffocating breath. No natural blaze this, Jon-Tom told himself wonderingly. Sorbl was right about that.

  Suddenly the onrushing wall of flame split as though cleft with an ax. It swung around them, consuming the land on either side. The air remained breathable. They were completely surrounded by a towering wall of fire.

  “Great light show.” Jon-Tom mopped at his face. The perspiration was pouring off him, but it was not intolerable. He tried to pretend he was lying on the beach at Redondo with the Santa Ana bringing in air from off the Mojave. “What do we do now?”

  “To think that not long ago I was worried about getting too cold,” Colin commented, displaying a fine sense of koalaish irony. He’d instinctively drawn his sword as the fire had approached, holding it tightly in both hands, the long claws interlocked to intensify his grip. But there was no enemy to stab at here, no flesh to cleave. He slipped the saber neatly into his back scabbard.

  Dormas was more uneasy than any of the them, a characteristic of her kind. “We can’t go forward and we can’t go back. Wizard?”

  “I have preserved us. That was all I had time to do,” Clothahump told them. “We can do naught but wait for the perturbation to end and pray it is not a lengthy one. I should not like to have to chance changing it by force. Natural fires are difficult enough to spell, and this blaze is anything but natural. The problem is that it is exceedingly difficult to convince a flame to hold still for anything, much less a decombustion spell.”

  “What happens when it ends?” Dormas wanted to know.

  “Everything snaps back, as with any perturbation—unless the effect is permanent, as was the case with Ospenspri.”

  “You mean, trees become trees again, rocks turn back to rock, and anyone caught in the blaze is restored to normal?”

  Clothahump nodded. “There is no limit to the tricks a perambulator can play with the laws of nature. Do not attempt to apply logic to its actions; you will go mad. It must be defined and dealt with on its own terms.”

  “Maybe you’re not ready to deal with it, sir, but I can’t take much more of this heat.” Jon-Tom was already unslinging his duar. He eyed Colin. “You wanted proof that I was a spellsinger? You’re going to get it.”

  “But, my boy, the risk,” Clothahump said earnestly. “One wrong word, one wrong note, and you could cancel out the protective spell I put in place around us. We could be swallowed up by this fiery perturbation of unknown duration, never to become ourselves again until it is too late.”

  Jon-Tom nodded toward the sun. “The greater fire or the lesser, what’s the difference? We might as well be swallowed up. We’re not getting any nearer the perambulator by sitting here and sweating. He who hesitates is lost.” He thumbed a few chords, the notes clearly audible above the rumble of the imprisoning flame.

  “’E who plays the wrong song is screwed,” Mudge warned him.

  “Work your magic if you can, man,” said Colin. “I am not afraid.”

  “That’s because you ’aven’t seen wot shit-for-brains ’ere can sing up,” Mudge told him as he backed as far away from his tall friend as the fire would permit.

  Jon-Tom considered. There were plenty of fire songs in his repertoire. Trouble was, most of them, such as the old “Fire—you’re gonna burn” or “Come on baby, light my fire” were pro-conflagration rather than anti. It took him several minutes to recall the lyrics to a suitably dousing ditty. Then he began to sing and to play.

  The sound of the duar had an immediate effect on the crackling, twisting ocean of heat surrounding them. Flames big and small shuddered and shrank in time to his beat. But when the song had done and he’d mouthed the final stanza, the fire was still there.

  Closer than there, in fact, for part of the blaze appeared to jump toward him. He’d finally gone and done it, then. Not only had he failed to make the perturbation snap back to normal, he’d canceled Clothahump’s protective spell exactly as the wizard had feared. He spread his arms and prepared himself as best as he could to accept the embrace of the flames.

  The red-orange tongue of destruction halted a yard in front of him. “Don’t be so melodramatic,” it hissed.

  “We only want you to join us,” crackled another, moving in from the right.

  Jon-Tom opened one eye, his arms still spread wide, and squinted at Clothahump. “This is part of the perturbation?”

  “Most extraordinary.” The wizard was studying the dancing flames. “It would appear that the fire has released the spirits of land and forest, of individual trees and stones. They have taken up residence in the blaze itself. Have a care, lest they induce you to join them. If they are attempting to convince you to do so voluntarily, it must mean that they cannot overcome us by force.”

  “Don’t worry.” A relieved Jon-Tom held his ground against the tempting flame and let his arms drop to his sides. “I don’t even like to hold a match.”

  “Join us, join us! Come and play and burn. Cast off your solid raiment and feel the pleasure of weightlessness! Run before the wind and devour the world anew! Don’t try to beat the heat—join it!” the blaze chorused.

  “No, thanks,” Jon-Tom told them firmly. “I never was big on conspicuous consumption.”

  “Well, then, sing us another song. Another melody of searing affection, of rampant incineration and fickle combustibility.”

  “And if I’m so inclined?” He held his breath. So did his companions.

  “Why, then, if you please us, we’ll pass on by and not trouble you any more. Sing to us again and we will not disturb your rest, much less consume you.”

  Jon-Tom thought of challenging them to do their worst, since it was Clothahump’s opinion that the fire couldn’t touch him without his willing acquiescence, but it seemed prudent not to force a confrontation with a forest fire of major and unnatural proportions. Easier to sing all the songs he’d thought of at first. If there was such a thing as an intelligent blaze, better to be on its good side, he told himself.

  So he sang, smoothly and skillfully but without putting any more energy into it than was necessary in case they were trying to pull a fast one on him. He’d sung better but never hotter, leading off with Kiss’s “Heaven’s on Fire” and concluding with half the songs from Def Lepard’s Pyromaniac album. The flames appeared to appreciate his efforts, jumping and prancing, throwing off bits and pieces of themselves into the sky.

  By now the heat had become truly oppressive. He would have disrobed, save that he didn’t dare take his hands off the duar or his eyes off the intelligent flames dancing before him. At the moment they were enjoying themselves, but he didn’t doubt that their attitude could change quickly. And he was running out of stamina as well as songs.

  “I’m getting tired,” he told them. “Couldn’t we take a break for a little while?”

  “Oh, no, play on,
burn on, dance on!” A thin tongue of flame reached out from the fiery wall and came within inches of caressing his right palm. It scorched the small hairs on the back of his hand. He jumped back a step and kept playing. Clearly Clothahump’s spell was weakening. Their continued survival might depend on his continued singing.

  He was beginning to despair and his throat was getting sore when the flames vanished. Instantly and without warning they were gone, down to the last smouldering ember. Trees were trees again, and the rocks no longer burned. Once more they found themselves standing amid the cool confines of the coniferous north woods.

  “Sorbl, get up there and let us know if you can see any flames, anywhere at all.”

  Obediently the owl took wing. He did not stay up very long.

  “Nothing, Master. The world is as it was before the fire. We have snapped back. Nothing burns, except—” He pointed in alarm to his left.

  The duar was glowing. Jon-Tom did a hysterical little dance as he fought to disengage himself from the instrument and toss it to the ground. It lay there glowing white-hot but did not burst into flame. Everyone waited and watched until it had cooled off enough for its owner to pick it up again. The strings were still warm.

  Jon-Tom inspected it thoroughly. “Looks okay.”

  “That’s a sight,” Mudge commented. “I know you can overheat an engine, a’ a draft animal, a’ a party or a lady, but I never saw anyone overheat an instrument before.”

  “Too much singing about fire and burning and flames.” He caressed the precious instrument lovingly, then turned to face Clothahump. “Sir, you spoke of perturbations that might be aimed at us specifically. Do you think this was one of those?”

  The wizard considered. “Difficult to say. I could not sense any unusual malignity, but that is proof of nothing except how much age has affected my sensitivity. One thing is certain, though. Regardless of whether or not this was intended to stop us or was one more in the series of general perturbations, it was more serious than most. As the perambulator’s frustration and agitation grows, its perturbations are likely to become more and more dangerous.

  “From now on we must mount a night watch, lest some life-threatening perturbation catch us unawares in our sleep.”

  “I’ll take the first watch tonight,” Colin volunteered. “I like the night.”

  “I’ll ’ave the second,” said Mudge hurriedly. “I’d rather stand early than late.”

  Jon-Tom sighed. “I guess I’m stuck with the graveyard shift. Dormas, I’ll wake you when my shift’s done.” She nodded agreeably.

  It wasn’t often mat Sorbl had a chance to show off. This was one time when he did. “And I, naturally, shall stand watch last and longest. Being a Buboninae, I can tolerate the night better than any of you.”

  “Provided Dormas keeps a sharp eye on the liquor supply,” Mudge murmured to Jon-Tom. “Wot about you, Your Brilliantship?”

  Clothahump’s manner was ever so condescending. “I am the most powerful wizard in the world, not to mention the brains of this little troop. I do not stand guard over myself.”

  “That’s about wot I thought.”

  “Watch your tongue, water rat. If you would like to bid to take the leadership of our group, I will—”

  “No, no, not me, Your Conjurerness.” The otter was grinning. “Far be it from me to dispute the fairness o’ your awesome decisions.”

  “When you’re going on three hundred years old”—the wizard harrumphed—“you find you require the maximum amount of sleep.”

  The next morning dawned clear and cold. Colin yawned, stretched, and spoke to his companions, who were still wrapped in their blankets and bedrolls.

  “I’ll see to the fire.”

  “You couldn’t make a fire if somebody doused you in oil and stuck a torch between your teeth!”

  “What?” The koala rose quickly, turned a fast circle. The only other member of the party who was on his feet was Mudge. The otter was standing on the far side of the central campfire, surveying the forest.

  Colin glowered at him. “I’ll let that one pass. It’s too early for this.”

  “Wot?” Mudge turned and eyed him curiously.

  “Nothing.” Colin bent over the pile of dead wood that remained from their scavenging of the previous night, began to stack several fragments in the center of the pile of gray ash.

  Mudge shrugged. “Wot would you like to ’ave with your meal? Berries, perbits, nuts?”

  “Doesn’t matter” came the quick reply. “We have the biggest nut of all in camp already. Or maybe it’s a fruit.”

  The otter whirled. “Now see ’ere, guv’nor, there’s such a thing as stretchi’ ’ospitality too far.”

  At first Colin didn’t appear to hear him. Then he looked up to see Mudge staring at him, and his gaze narrowed dangerously. He paused in the middle of lighting the fire. “Are you talking to me, pilgrim?”

  “Yeah, I’m talking to you, cookie-ears. Just what did you mean by that?”

  “What did I mean by what?” Colin was as confused as he was upset.

  Dormas lifted her head from beneath her blanket, sleepily peered out at the world. “If you two kids are going to argue, I’d appreciate it if you’d do it somewhere else. I’m still working on my beauty sleep.”

  “And everyone knows how badly you need it, too, nag-hag.”

  The hinny was instantly awake. She rolled over onto her knees and glared around the campsite. “Who said that? Where’s the bastard who said that?”

  Mudge and Colin were too busy trying to stare each other down to pay any attention to her. “If you don’t find our company to your liki’ anymore, mate,” the otter growled, “we’ll be ’appy to do without you.”

  “Actually I could do without your face. Also your neck, paws, and the rest of your degenerate body. In fact, the world could do without you altogether.”

  “Is that a fact?” The otter reached for his sword.

  “Wait a minute.” Colin’s anger had given way to genuine puzzlement.

  “That’s all it’ll take to teach you some manners, you—” But Colin cut him off.

  “No, think a minute, pilgrim. I didn’t say anything a moment ago.”

  “The pudgy one is correct.” Both of them turned to see Clothahump standing and scanning the air around them. “Restrain your natural impulses, you two. There is mischief afoot this morning. Up, everyone, wake up!”

  “Huh, wha—” Jon-Tom rolled out from beneath his blanket. “What’s going on?”

  “Get up, Jon-Tom.”

  Their confrontation already forgotten, Mudge and Colin were staring down at the spellsinger. “Is he always like this?” Colin inquired.

  Mudge sighed. “I’m afraid so. ’E’s good to ’ave around, as he showed duri’ yesterday’s ’ot spell, even if ’e is a bit of a prude a’ lazy to boot. But ’e’s a spellsinger o’ the first water when ’e’s on, which ain’t always.”

  “I heard that, Mudge.” Jon-Tom sat up and fought with his shirt. “Where do you get off calling anybody else lazy?”

  “Silence, all of you,” ordered Clothahump in a commanding voice. He turned away from them and strolled softly over to the small tree where a wary Sorbl still stood watch. “What have you seen approach the camp?”

  “Nothing, Master. Nothing has come and gone, not so much as a lizard. But—I sense something. I did not think it worth waking anyone. It has been present only since sunrise.”

  Clothahump nodded approvingly. “Good. You are learning suspicion. All those lessons may not have been in vain. I sense it also.”

  Jon-Tom climbed to his feet, trying to clear his mind and his eyes, which were both still foggy with sleep. “Sense what? I don’t see anything.”

  The wizard started back toward his sleeping basin, was brought up short by a challenging, sneering voice. “Where do you think you’re going, you senile old fart? You think you’re tough because of that shell. Well, it is hard, except for your head, which is soft like a ripe
tomato.”

  “Who said that?” Jon-Tom looked at Mudge. Mudge looked cautiously at Colin, who returned the stare.

  “You didn’t insult my fire-making, did you?”

  “Of course not, mate. I did nothi’ o’ the sort. A’ you didn’t snap at me when I were about to set out on the mornin’s foragin’?”

  “No. Why would I do that?”

  Clothahump had proceeded on to the far side of the camp when the voice sounded again. “Can’t even walk in a straight line anymore, can you? Advanced decrepitude’s definitely set it. Wonder which’ll go first? The brain or the body?”

  The wizard took a couple of steps backward and the voice ceased. “It is a wall,” he announced confidently. The others gaped at him.

  “A wall?” Jon-Tom muttered. He looked in front of the wizard, saw nothing but clear air. “But everything’s normal, everything and everybody are normal. The world’s unaltered.”

  “It is definitely a designed perturbation,” Clothahump went on, “sent here to stop us. Truly the individual we seek is one of power and talent, though his thoughts are distorted and his methods unorthodox. We are in a cage.”

  “I don’t see any bars, Master.” Sorbl spread his wings and lifted off. He was ten feet off the ground when that by-now familiar voice boomed at him.

  “Looks like a pie plate with wings.”

  “No,” declared a second voice, at least as nasty as the first, “it’s a flying feather duster.”

  Sorbl was brought up as short, as if he’d smacked into a glass ceiling. He barely had time to right himself as he tumbled groundward, landing hard on his left side. Pushing himself upright with a wing, he hopped onto his feet and studied the seemingly empty air overhead.

  “I am sorry I doubted you, Master. It was just like hitting a roof.”

  “I still don’t see any bars or anything,” a thoroughly confused Jon-Tom muttered.

  “This is not your ordinary sort of cage, my boy. I have seen cages fashioned of wood and cages made of steel. I have heard of cages built of clay and delicate cages woven of silk. I have even heard of cages built with the bodies of living creatures. But I have never heard of, read of, or expected to encounter a cage fashioned of gratuitous insults.”