by neetha Napew
"Oh, it exists all right." His fists rubbed angrily on the table as he watched
the subservient rat suddenly go down on his chest. A turtle with a disposition
considerably less refined than Clothahump's had stuck out a stubby leg and
tripped the unfortunate rodent. Once more the laboriously gathered garbage went
flying while a new burst of merriment flared from the onlookers.
"Why discrimination like that here?" Jon-Tom muttered. "Why here too?"
"Discrimination?" Mudge seemed confused. "Nobody discriminates against 'em.
That's all they're good for. Can't argue with natural law, mate."
Jon-Tom had expected more from Mudge, though he'd no real reason to. From what
he'd already seen, the otter was no worse than the average inhabitant of this
stinking, backward nonparadise.
There were a number of humans scattered throughout the restaurant. None came
near approaching Jon-Tom in height. Nearby a single older gentleman was drinking
and playing cards with a spider monkey dressed in black shot through with silver
thread. They paired off against a larger simian Jon-Tom couldn't identify and a
three-foot-tall pocket gopher wearing a crimson jumpsuit and the darkest
sunglasses Jon-Tom had ever seen.
No doubt they were as prejudiced and bigoted as the others. And where did he
come off setting himself up as arbiter of another world's morals?
"There ain't nothin' you can do about it, mate. Why would anyone want t' change
things? Cor now, moppin' and sweepin' and such are out, unless you want t' lose
all respeet due a regular citizen. Politickin' you're also qualified for, but
that o' course ranks even lower than janitorial-type drudgeryin'. I'd hope you
won't 'ave t' fall back on your abilities for minstrelin'." His tone changed to
one of hope mixed with curiosity.
"Now ol' Clothahump, 'e was bloody well sure you were some sort of sorcerer, 'e
was. You sure you can't work no magic? I 'eard you questioning 'is wizard-wart's
own special words."
"That was just curiosity, Mudge. Some of the words were familiar. But not in the
way he used them. Even you did the business with the dancing pins. Does everyone
practice magic around here?"
"Oh, everyone practices, all right." Mudge swilled down a snootful of black
brew. "But few get good enough at it to do much more than a trick or two. Pins
are my limit, I'm afraid. Wish to 'ell I knew 'is gold spell." His gaze suddenly
moved left and he grinned broadly.
"Course now, when the situation arises I ain't too bad at certain forms o'
levitation." His right hand moved with the speed of which only otters are
capable.
How the saucily dressed and heavily made up chipmunk managed to keep from
dumping the contents of the six tankards she was maneuvering through the crowd
was a bit of magic in itself, Jon-Tom thought as he ducked to avoid the few
flying suds.
She turned an outraged look on the innocent-seeming Mudge. "You keep your hands
to yourself, you shit-eating son of a mud worm! Next time you'll get one of
these up your furry backside!" She threatened him with a tankard.
"Now Lily," Mudge protested, " 'aven't you always told me you're always 'untin'
for a way t' move up in the world?"
She started to swing an armful of liquor at him and he cowered away in mock
fear, covering his face with his paws and still smiling. Then she thought better
of wasting the brew. Turning from their table she marched away, elbowing a path
through the crowd. Her tail switched prettily from side to side, the short dress
barely reaching from waist to knee. It was gold with a gray lining that neatly
set off her own attractive russet and black and white striping.
"What did I tell you, mate?" Mudge grinned over his mug at Jon-Tom.
He tried to smile back, aware that the otter was trying to break the glum mood
into which Jon-Tom had fallen. So he forced himself to continue the joke.
"Mighty short levitation, Mudge. I don't see how it does her any good."
"Who said anything about her?" The otter jabbed himself in the chest with a
thumb. "It's me the levitatin' benefits!" He clasped both furry arms around his
chest and roared at his own humor, threatening to upset table and self.
Wooden shades were rolled down to cover the two windows, and someone dimmed the
oil lamps. Jon-Tom started to rise, felt a restraining paw on his wrist.
"Nay, guv, 'tis nothing t' be concerned about." His eyes were sparkling. "Quite
the contrary. Did I not promise you some entertainment?" He pointed to the
circular serving counter and up.
What looked like an upside-down tree was slowly descending from a gap in the
center of the peaked ceiling. It was green with fresh growth, only the foliage
had been tacked on and doubtless was periodically renewed. The still unseen band
segued into an entirely new tune. The percussionist was doing most of the work
now, Jon-Tom noted. The beat was heavy, slow, and sensuous.
The yelling and shouting that filled the establishment changed also. Barely
organized chaos faded to a murmur of anticipation spotted with occasional roars
of comment, usually lewd in nature.
Mudge had shifted his seat, now sat close to Jon-Tom. His eyes were on the fake
tree as he elbowed his companion repeatedly in the ribs.
"Eyes at the alert now, mate. There's not a fairer nor more supple sight in all
Lynchbany."
An animal appeared at the dark opening in the ceiling, prompting a bellow from
the crowd. It vanished, then teasingly reappeared. It was slight, slim, and made
its way very slowly from the hidden chamber above down into the branches of the
ersatz conifer. About three and a half feet in length, it displayed another half
foot of active tail and was completely, almost blindingly covered in snow-white
fur save for a few inches of black at the tip of the tail.
Its costume, if such so lithe a wrapping could be called, consisted of many
layers of black veils of some chiffonlike material through which the brilliant
white fur showed faintly. Its face was streaked with red painted on in intricate
curlicues and patterns that ran from face and snout down onto shoulders, chest,
and back before vanishing beneath the airy folds. A turban of matching black was
studded with jewels. The final touch, Jon-Tom noted with fascination, were long
false eyelashes.
So absorbing was this glittering mammalian vision that for several moments
identification escaped him. That slim form and muscular torso could only belong
to some member of the weasel family. When the apparition smiled and displayed
tiny sharp teeth he was certain of it. This was an ermine, still in full
winter-white coat. That confirmed the time of year he'd arrived, though he
hadn't thought to ask anyone. About the creature's femininity he had no doubt
whatsoever.
A hush of interspecies expectancy had settled over the crowd. All attention was
focused overhead as the ermine ecdysiast began to toy with the clasps securing
one veil. She unsnapped one, then its companion. Cries of appreciation started
to rise from the patrons, an amazing assortment of hoots, whistles, squeaks,
yowls, and barks. She began to uncoil th
e first veil with snakelike motions.
Jon-Tom had never had occasion to imagine an animal executing anything as erotic
as a striptease. After all, beneath any clothing lay another layer of solid fur
and not the bare flesh of a human.
But eroticism has little to do with nudity, as he soon discovered. It was the
movement of the creature, a supple twisting and turning that no human female
could possibly match, that was stimulating. He found himself thoroughly
engrossed by the mechanics of the dance alone.
To rising cries of appreciation from the crowd one veil followed another. The
cool indifference Jon-Tom had intended to affect had long since given way to a
distinct tingling. He was no more immune to beauty than any other animal. The
ermine executed a series of movements beyond the grasp of the most talented
double-jointed human, and did so with the grace and demeanor of a countess.
There was also the manner in which she oozed around the branches and leaves of
the tree, caressing them with hands and body in a way only a chunk of cold
granite could have ignored. The room was heavy with musk now, the suggestiveness
of motion and gesture affecting every male within sight.
The last veil dropped free, floated featherlike to the floor. The music was
moving almost as fast as the performer. That white-furred derriere had become a
gravity-defying metronome, a passionate pendulum sometimes concealed, sometimes
revealed by the position of the twitching tail, all vibrating in time to the
music.
The music rose to a climax as the ermine, hanging by her arms from the lowermost
branches, executed an absolutely impossible series of movements which
incidentally revealed to Jon-Tom the reason for the circular, central nature of
the main serving counter. It served now as fortress wall behind which the
heavily armed cooks and bartenders were able to fend off the hysterical advances
of the overheated patrons.
One long-eared rabbit which Jon-Tom supposed to be a jack actually managed to
grab a handful of black-tipped tail which was coyly but firmly pulled out of
reach. A burly bobcat dumped the rabbit back among the surging patrons as the
ermine blew a last kiss to her audience. Then she slithered back through
branches and leaves to disappear inside the ceiling with a last fluid bump and
grind.
Shades and tree were promptly rolled up. Conversation resumed and normality
returned to the restaurant. Waitresses and waiters continued to wend their way
through the crowd like oxygen in the bloodstream.
"D'you see now wot I mean, mate?" Mudge said with the contentment of one who'd
just cashed a very large check, "when I say that there's no one who--" He
stopped, stared strangely across the table.
"What's wrong?" asked Jon-Tom uncomfortably.
" 'Ave me for breakfast," was the startled reply, "if you ain't blushin'! You
'umans..."
"Bull," muttered Jon-Tom, turning angrily away.
"Nope." The otter leaned over the table, peering closely at Jon-Tom despite his
attempts to keep his face concealed. "Blimey but it's true... you're as red as a
baboon's behind, lad." He nodded upward, toward the peak of the roof." 'Ave you
ne'er seen such a performance before, then?"
"Of course I have." He turned forcefully back to face his guardian, rocked a
little unsteadily. It seeped into his brain that he might have become a little
bit tipsy. How much of that black booze had he downed?
"That is, I have... on film."
"What be that?"
"A magic apparition," Jon-Tom explained facilely.
"Well if you've gazed upon such, though not, I dare to say," and he gazed
admiringly ceilingward, "of such elegance and skill, then why the red face?"
"It's just that," he searched for the right words to explain his confusion, "I
shouldn't find the actions of..." How could he say, "another animal" without
offending his companion? Desperately he hunted for an alternate explanation.
"I've never seen anything done with quite that... well, with quite that degree
of perverse dexterity."
"Ah, I understand now. Though perverse I wouldn't call it. Crikey, but that was
a thing of great beauty."
"If you say so, I guess it was." Jon-Tom was grateful for the out.
"Aye." Mudge growled softly and smiled. "And if I could once get my paws on that
supple little mother-dear, I'd show 'er a thing of beauty."
The thick, warm atmosphere of the restaurant had combined with the rich food and
drink to make Jon-Tom decidedly woozy. He was determined not to pass out. Mudge
already did not think much of him, and Clothahump's warnings or no, he wasn't
ready to bet that the otter would stay with him if he made a total ass of
himself.
Determinedly he shoved the mug away, rose, and glanced around.
"What be you searchin' for now, mate?"
"Some of my own kind." His eyes scanned the crowd for the sight of bare flesh.
"What, 'umans?" The otter shrugged. "Aw well, never 'ave I understood your
peculiar affinity for each other's company, but you're free enough to choose
your own. Espy some, do you?"
Jon-Tom's gaze settled on a pair of familiar bald faces in a booth near the rear
of the room. "There's a couple over that way. Two men, I think."
"As you will, then."
He turned his attention down to the otter. "It's not that I'm not enjoying your
companionship, Mudge. It's just that I'd like one of my own kind to talk to for
a while."
His worries were groundless. Mudge was in entirely too good a mood to be
offended by anything.
"Wotever you like, mate. We'll go and 'ave a chat then, if that's wot you want.
But don't forget we've still the little matter o' settlin' you on some proper
course o' employment." He shook his head more to clear it than to indicate
displeasure.
"Minstrel... I don't know. There might still be the novelty factor." He
scratched the fur just under his chin. "Tell you what. Give us another song and
then we'll go over and see if we can't make the acquaintance o' those chaps."
"I thought you'd heard enough the first time."
"Never go on first appearances, mate. Besides, 'twas a damn blue and gloomy tune
you let out with. Try somethin' different. Many's the minstrel who well mangles
one type o' tune yet can warble clearly another."
Jon-Tom sat down again, linked his fingers, and considered. "I don't know. What
would you like to hear? Classical, pop, blues, jazz?" He tried to sound
enthusiastic. "I know some classical, but what I really always wanted to do was
sing rock. It's a form of popular music back where I come from."
"I don't know either, mate. 'Ow 'bout ballads? Everyone likes ballads."
"Sure." He was warming again to his true love. "I know a number of 'em. What
subject do you like best?"
"Let me think on it a minute." Actually, it was only a matter of seconds before
a gleam returned to the black eyes, along with a smile.
"Never mine," Jon-Tom said hastily. "I'll think of something."
He thought, but it was hard to settle on any one song. Maybe it was the noise
and smell swirling around them, maybe the aftereffects of the meal, but words
and notes flitted in and out of his brain like gnats, never pausing long enough
for him to get a grip on any single memory. Besides, he felt unnatural singing
without his trusty, worn Grundig slung over his shoulder and across his stomach.
If he only had something, even a harmonica. But he couldn't play that and sing
simultaneously.
"Come on now, mate," Mudge urged him. "Surely you can think o' something?"
"I'll try," and he did, launching into a cracked rendition of "Strawberry Fair,"
but the delicate harmonies were drowned in the bellowing and hooting and
whistling that filled the air of the restaurant.
Nonetheless, he was unprepared for the sharp blow that struck him between the
shoulderblades and sent him sprawling chest-down across the table.
Angry and confused, he turned to find himself staring into a ferocious dark
brown face set on a stocky, muscular body as tall as Mudge's but more than twice
as broad....
VI
The snakeskin beret and red bandana did nothing to lessen the wolverine's
intimidating appearance.
"Sorry," Jon-Tom mumbled, uncertain of what else to say.
The face glared down at him, powerful jaws parting to reveal sharp teeth as the
lips curled back. "You ban not sorry enough, I think!" the creature rumbled
hollowly. "I ban pretty sorry for your mother, she having much to listen to a
voice like that. You upset my friends and my meal."
"I was just practicing." He was beginning to feel a mite indignant at the
insults. The warmth of the roast was still with him. He failed to notice the
queasy expression that had come over Mudge's faee. "It's difficult to sing
without any music to accompany me."
"Yah, well, you ban practice no more, you hear? It ban hurt my ears."
Mudge was trying and failing to gain Jen-Tom's attention. Jon-Tom rose from his
seat to tower over the shorter but more massive animal. It made him feel better,
giving proof once again to the old adage about the higher, the mightier. Or as
the old philosopher said, witness the pigeon's tactical advantage over man.
However the wolverine was not impressed. He gazed appraisingly up and down
Jon-Tom's length. "All that voice tube and no voice. Maybe you ban better at
singing in harmony, yah? So maybe I put one half neek here and the other half
across the table," and powerful clawed hands reached for Jon-Tom's face.
