For a koala a single grove of such tall wonders was all anyone could hope to own in a lifetime. Here was an entire forest growing wild on unclaimed land. Paradise, and a fortune for the claiming. He plucked another handful, being more selective this time, extracting the dead or blighted leaves before stuffing the rest into his mouth. Crossing his legs, he sat down on the branch, put his hands behind his head, and leaned back against the trunk as he chewed while staring up at the blue, blue sky.
His dried-and-cubed eucalyptus had run out months ago. Since then he’d been forced to eat whatever greenery he’d been able to scrounge from the woods. His stomach had been constantly upset, and eating became a chore instead of a pleasure. Beans, nuts, and pine needles were little better than garbage.
And now he sat on a branch of the True Tree, nibbling its bounty and reminiscing. And planning. For all he had to do was package this produce and ship it back home. Within a year he’d be independently wealthy. A third handful of leaves followed close on the stems of the first two. For the first time in months he was able to relax.
The sweeping panorama of endless, rolling meadow struck Dormas like a solid blow as they turned a bend in the trail. There had been no warning. They had been marching through tall pine forest, tramping around bushes, and shoving aside low-hanging branches, only to emerge unexpectedly onto the open grassland.
No normal meadow this. You could tell that right away. There were no trees enclosing it, none at all, and in consequence it stretched endlessly in all directions, conceding not even the horizon to the lowering sky. More incredible still, it was composed not of sedge and other grasses but of multiple varieties of clover. There was red clover and blue-green, dandelion clover and seven-sided shaboum, which has a nutty taste when chewed slowly. The air was thick with green sweetness.
Most unbelievably of all, the consistency and height of the clover hinted that this was that rarest of all grasslands, a virgin meadow. No teeth had cropped at that rain-cleansed greenness. It was such a meadow as browsers and grazers only dream of.
She broke into a gallop, not slowing even when she plunged into the fragile growth itself. It parted around her like a green sea around the prow of a ship until she slowed, panting, and finally bent to use her teeth on the rich reward. The first taste was indescribably pure.
Here was a playground unthought of since colthood, a place to rest and regain the strength lost during the long journey from Ospenspri. She lay down in the clover, rolling and kicking her legs, drunk with the very smell of it. Every taste was cool-fresh, as though each blade had just been kissed by the first morning’s dew. The occasional pungent clover flower only added spice to each exquisite mouthful.
The blossoms crushed underneath gave up their spring perfume to the air. Such a place could not be real, could not exist.
But it did, and she had it all to herself, a reward for a lifetime of hard work and ennobling sacrifice.
Flying scout duty, Sorbl couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. Below, the trees gave way suddenly to a wide expanse of golden-hued liquid. The lake lay just beyond the pass his poor land-bound companions were struggling through, nestled in the valley beyond.
At the far end it was a deep azure blue. But the southern third was no more than a foot deep, clear as glass above a bottom of smooth pebbles and pristine river sand. Swarming in incredible numbers above the gravel were more fish than he’d ever seen in one place in his life. The schools fought for swimming space, so thickly were they compacted. He picked out salmon and trout, bass and blue gill, their scales shining like metal in the midmoming sun.
There was no work involved, no strain. Precision was not required. You didn’t even have to take aim as you folded your wings and plummeted toward the water. All you had to do was open your talons and touch down to be certain of coming away with a fresh meal of white meat.
Nor was that the only surprise the lake held. It puzzled him at first, then confused him, and when he hit the water and snatched his first fish, it astonished him.
The water splashed over him as he swept up the golden trout in his claws. It washed down over his face and feathers. That was when he knew it to be true. It explained the lake’s golden hue.
Putting the trout aside for later eating, he hopped down to the water’s edge. A single sip provided confirmation enough. Fields of wild grain lined the lakeshore. Some inexplicable fermenting process had transformed centuries of grain growth, and the result had been leaching into the lake waters ever since. How the fish could not only survive but thrive in the result he didn’t know, but who was he to question such a wonder?
For the undeniable fact remained that the water was at least eighty-proof, and stronger in the shallows. Furthermore, different parts of the lake had different flavors, no doubt reflective of the particular grains growing along each section of shoreline. It was just like the master’s cleansing rainstorm over Ospenspri, only here one didn’t have to catch drops in one’s open beak. Here one could sample and sip at leisure.
He drank until he thought he would burst, then returned to his fish. Settling down on his tail, he hefted the trout in both wingtips and began gnawing away. Time enough later for cooking, if he felt like some variety. The raw flesh was delicious, firm, and undiseased.
Why spend years of drudgery as a wizard’s famulus when a fortune was staring him in the face? He would resign his service with Clothahump, fly back to Lynchbany or Ospenspri, and strike a deal with some major local brewer to bottle the lake and sell it all across the warmlands. As the discoverer, all he had to do was file a land claim with the nearest city recorder. He and his partners could supply every pub in the Bellwoods. He all but laughed himself silly as he thought of the anxiety and frustration that would infect the various municipal revenue agents as they wore themselves to a frazzle in a futile search to locate his hidden “distillery” so they could slap taxes on his produce.
And when he’d grown rich enough, he mused, he would hire Clothahump to work for him.
There was no way of telling how long the Library had been hidden from view, but it had obviously lain unvisited for a long time. Vines and creepers threaded their way over and through the ancient stone walls. Trees sent their roots through the foundation stones, and their spreading canopies concealed the building from above. It would have continued unnoticed had not Clothahump chosen just the right moment to look up to his left. He’d caught a glimpse of sunlight bouncing off neatly trimmed gray stone.
Frowning, he turned and waddled toward it. He recognized neither what remained of the architectural style nor the designs carved over the still-intact door. The nature of the structure remained a mystery until he managed to force his way inside. Fortunately the aged doors were rotten.
The sight thus revealed took his breath away. A Library it was, with row on row of shelves filled to the top with scrolls and books and all kinds of unfamiliar records. There were sheets and small round disks of plastic, each in its own protective sleeve; knotted ropes; and inscribed stone tablets. The more fragile materials had been preserved through the extensive use of superlative preservatives.
What people had raised this Library and set it here alone and by itself to be found by some fortunate passerby he could not tell, but it was clear that they had built for the ages. He wandered dazedly down one aisle after another, numbed by the sight of so much knowledge. Unbroken cases of thick glass lined the center of the floor, displaying beneath their transparent curves tomes as ancient as time. Some of the shelving was three stories high. Three separate mezzanines wound their way completely around the interior of the building. Each was backed by iron railings worked in the form of hieroglyphic writing. The building itself was so long, he could not see to the far end.
How much knowledge was stored in this place? he wondered. How many secrets of the eons? Impossible to estimate, foolish to guess. It would take years simply to count and catalog the millions of volumes within. Where even to begin?
An index of some kind, perh
aps set alongside a great dictionary of languages and scripts. There must be something like that here, he thought excitedly. He headed toward the first of the glass cases, trembling with anticipation. All he had to do was locate the Library catalog. Within its depths would lie the answers to all the questions he’d spent nearly three hundred years pondering. The mysteries of the universe waited patiently on the shelves surrounding him, waiting only for him to look them up.
Another lifetime’s work lay spread out before him. The books and records had been awaiting his arrival for millennia. If he was fortunate he would be granted enough time to peruse a small part of the Library. It was a daunting prospect but one bursting with promise and excitement. He knew only that there was work to be done, and he fell to it with a will.
They’d gone and oversold the Coliseum, Jon-Tom mused as he strode out onto the stage to join his band. As he made his entrance a thunderous roar rose from the unseen crowd, from the milling mass out there beyond the footlights. The roar rose and fell, swollen by the hysteria barely kept in check out on the floor. It went on and on before changing into a deafening chant as thousands of fans began clapping in unison.
“J-T-M, J-T-M, J-T-M!” Jon-Tom’s initials and those of his band. He let them scream themselves out, teasing them, in no hurry to begin, waiting for them to cool down enough to hear. Offstage right their manager grinned broadly and made a circle with his thumb and forefinger. Jon-Tom returned the smile indulgently.
This was the last performance of their year-and-a-half-long world tour, the last of eight consecutive sellout nights at the Forum in Los Angeles. Bobby, his drummer, eyed him with concern, and Jon-Tom gave him a single reassuring nod. The drummer could only shake his head in amazement. Friends, critics, and fans alike wondered where J. T. got his stamina from, just as they wondered at his ability to do the same songs over and over, night after night, without displaying any signs of boredom or burnout. The whole music industry stood in awe of him.
And really, the secret of his enthusiasm was plain for anyone to see. He no longer sang for the money. He had plenty of money. Nor for fame, for he was a famous as any performer could be. No, he kept singing because of the fans, the fans who had supported him and made him what he was today. Tonight was special, and not just because it was the final night of the tour. It was special because of the fans.
The Grammy awards had been handed out two weeks ago, and he’d won more individual awards than any other performer in history. The fans had done that for him. Now there was talk, nothing more than vague rumors, of course, that because of the penetrating and powerful social commentary contained in his lyrics, the Nobel committee in Stockholm was giving serious consideration to awarding him a special prize. It would be the first time a popular composer and performer had been so honored. The Pulitzer for music, he had been assured, was already in the bag. And, of course, the minority party was asking him, or rather pleading with him, to put his career aside long enough to run for the vacant junior senatorial seat from the state of California.
Yes, it might have seemed like enough to overwhelm any one man, but not Jonathan Thomas Meriweather. He handled success and adulation with the same ease as he handled his favorite guitar. Though he basked in his fame, he was still just the same regular guy as always, he’d explained to the hordes of eager reporters who kept pestering him for quotable quotes.
Ah, well, he supposed, he’d tantalized them long enough. He adjusted the Fender’s strap, nodded toward his sidemen, and waited while Bobby started to work the crowd up all over again with his drums. A vast wave of adoration rolled forth from the audience to sweep over the stage in a great roar.
Yes, everything was going about as well as mortal man could expect, he told himself. He’d accomplished everything on this tour he could have hoped to do. No one knew yet, but tonight would be his last live performance. He was going to accept the offer to run for the vacant senatorial seat.
But something was not quite right. The strings of his guitar felt thin beneath his fingers. They seemed to stick, and there were more of them than there should have been. They ran the wrong way too. It didn’t seem to bother the crowd, which continued bellowing and screaming louder than ever, but it unnerved Jon-Tom. He turned his back on them, letting Bobby and Julio carry the opening overture while he fought to sort himself out. Wrong, wrong, there was definitely something wrong!
As he turned away from the crowd the shouts of jubilation faded away, taking the people with them. The cavernous walls of the Forum disappeared and with it the overweening feeling of contentment.
It was the noise that drew Mudge to the cave, the laughing and sounds of carousing, along with the faint odor of liquor and pungent dope sticks. He knew that he should tell his companions, but surely he could check out this one anomaly by himself. Besides, he’d left them far behind, chattering mindlessly among themselves.
There was no one posted on watch at the entrance to the burrow. If he couldn’t slip in, have a look-see around, and slip out again without being detected, of what use was he?
The tunnel was brightly illuminated by sweet-smelling torches instead of expensive spell-maintained glow bulbs. That suited him fine. He’d had enough of spelling and magicks. It led in and down before leveling off. The dirt floor gave way to smooth stone. A vein of malachite running through the pavement had been polished to a brilliant shine, the green-and-black waves undulating through the marble. He followed it toward the noise and smells.
A hundred yards on and the tunnel opened up onto a scene of sybaritic splendor. Ahead lay a chamber of epicurean delights. From the roof hung a massive chandelier ablaze with a thousand candles, each one fashioned of perfumed wax. He did not stop to consider how so enormous a fixture might have been brought into this place. He was too busy staring at the orchestra. It consisted of scantily clad females, each of whom was not only playing her instrument with consummate skill but clearing enjoying a personal and intimate relationship with it.
In fact, there wasn’t a male in the entire assembly. There were females of many species, but the majority were otters: sleek and smooth of fur, long of whisker, and sharp of tooth. Thirty of them were dancing to the wild music of the orchestra, spinning and swirling like dervishes. He observed them transfixed, frozen to the spot. Faced with such an unexpected and astonishing abundance of feminine pulchritude, what else could he do?
Not stand there forever, however much he might want to preserve the moment. He had not come alone. With great reluctance he turned to race back out the tunnel to inform his friends of what he’d discovered when a sharp, startled scream split the air. The music ceased. The dancing halted. So did Mudge. Every one of those shining, voluptuous beauties was staring straight at him.
“Look,” exclaimed one of the otterish houris into the lingering silence, “a male!”
Shrieks and giggles filled the chamber as they charged toward him.
“Now, lassies,” he said uneasily, putting up both hands and assuming a defensive posture. “Let’s not do anything drastic until we talk this over.”
They swarmed over him, their perfume overpowering, each fighting for the chance to touch and caress, to kiss and nip. Not struggling as hard as he might have, he found himself half pushed, half pulled into the chamber. The music resumed, freer and more undisciplined than before. They were inviting him to join them, he knew, in their celebration. To revel as he’d never reveled before. His friends were waiting, true but—they could wait. And if they couldn’t, well, they’d just have to get along without good old Mudge. He succumbed fully to euphoria.
Jon-Tom blinked, wiped at his eyes. He was gripping the duar so hard, his fingers hurt. Had he snapped out of it automatically or had he been fortunate enough to play a perturbation-canceling melody while still unconscious?
What had happened to the Forum, to the screaming crowd? Where there had been fans wild with delirium, fighting and reaching just to touch his boots, applauding and cheering every word that fell from his lips, now the
re was only rank upon rank of tall pine trees, of firs and spruces and an occasional young redwood. And their silence was deafening.
His companions surrounded him, but when he called out to them, they did not reply. They did not even seem to see him.
Colin sat up in a pine tree, munching away on pine needles and wearing the look of the exorbitantly stoned. Clothahump squatted beneath him, sheltered by two large roots. He was turning a fiat rock over and over in his hands, a rapturous expression on his face. A sound made him turn to his left.
Dormas was rolling around in the dirt, her expression almost as beatific as Colin’s. She had dumped her pack, and their supplies lay scattered all over the ground. Sorbl lay close by, facedown in a muddy puddle of rainwater. He was blowing bubbles and making swimming motions with his wings. He was further gone than any of them. And Mudge—Jon-Tom searched the clearing anxiously. Where was Mudge?
A noise that was part growl and part moan came from off to his right. Holding his forehead (he had one hell of a headache), Jon-Tom stumbled off in that direction, trying to follow the sounds to their source.
They led him to a fallen log that the otter was embracing tightly, his face wreathed in a smile of languorous ecstasy. As soon as he saw what the otter was doing, Jon-Tom swallowed hard and turned away. During their travels Mudge had done absurd things, impractical things, even moderately disgusting things, but this—he tried to shut out the image that lingered in his mind as he considered what to do next.
Clothahump was the only one who looked half like himself. Jon-Tom walked up to the wizard and put a hand on his arm. He shook it hard.
“Wake up, sir! I don’t know where you are now, but you aren’t where you’re at. Please, Clothahump, answer me.”
The wizard ignored him. Trying to remember exactly how he’d returned to reality, Jon-Tom tried to reposition his fingers the same way on the duar. Taking a deep breath, he strummed a few chords without having the slightest idea what he might be playing.
The Paths of the Perambulator: A Spellsinger Adventure (Book Five) Page 20
