neetha Napew - The Time Of The Transferance

Having already settled on his song, he began to strum the suar’s strings. Almost immediately a faintly phosphorescent green cloud formed over the villagers’ heads. Whispers of astonishment and awe greeted this rapid manifestation of true magic.

Unfortunately, while visually impressive, it distracted them from concentrating. He had to tell Cautious to remind them to ignore things like the green cloud or none of them would get their wishes. The cloud did have the effect of convincing the doubters among the hunters, however. Everyone was concentrating intently now.

As he sang on, a few gneechees put in an appearance. Not many, certainly far fewer than would have been drawn to the music of his duar, but enough to show that the spellsinging was working. There seemed to be something wrong with them, though. Instead of swooping and darting in familiar patterns, they shot through the air in short, jerky bursts. A couple even smashed into the ground and bounced dazedly away.

What this erratic behavior portended he couldn’t imagine and didn’t have time to consider. What mattered was that the tribe continue to concentrate. He could see them beginning to drift, to lose consciousness where they stood. A foul odor abruptly assailed his nostrils. Odd, but then his spellsinging often produced unexpected side effects. He could see that his companions smelled it, too.

“Wot the bloody ‘ell’s that aroma?” Next to him, Weegee put both paws over her nose. “Jon-Tom, it’s awful,”

Indeed it was, but he was afraid to stop singing or playing. The horrible miasma spread and intensified.

Cautious tried to retreat a few steps, nodding toward the villagers closest to him. “I think it coming from them.”

Indeed, every one of the villagers, from the chief down through the hunters to the lowliest infant seemed to have suddenly acquired the most abominable body odor. Nor did they appear in the least hypnotized by the spellsinging. One by one they opened their eyes and began to discuss the atrocious effluvia that now permeated their fur. Mutterings of disgust and anger filled the air as neighbor shied away from neighbor.

“That settles it.” Mudge could barely keep his breakfast down. “Not that there seemed much doubt wot fate they ‘ad in mind for us before, but ‘tis confirmed now.”

Jon-Tom continued to play until it was clear his song wasn’t producing the desired effect. “I don’t understand. I played that perfectly. The words were so apt.”

“Must’ve been somethin’ in your pronunciation, mate, or maybe it ‘as to do with your usin’ this ‘ere suar instead o’ your duar. You tried to get ‘em thinkin’ all the time. Wot you got ‘em was stinkin’ all the time.”

“We’ll have to try again.” As he said this a pair of the senior hunters were heading toward him, gesturing angrily with their truncated machetes. “Cautious, tell them it’ll be all right, tell them I made a mistake but I’m going to fix everything. Tell them fast.”

The raccoon translated. The hunters hesitated, glared threateningly at the man in their midst but held their ground. He began to sing again. It wasn’t easy because of the odor, but he had no choice. Once again the green cloud intensified. No onlooker could doubt the human was a magician. The trouble was that his variety of magic wasn’t very agreeable.

He sang hard, trying to concentrate particularly on his enunciation, phrasing each lyric precisely. Once more the spellsinging took effect. Once more the result was not quite what he’d been striving for.

“Terrific, mate.” Mudge gazed at the villagers surrounding them. “You’ve made ‘em our friends forever.”

The odor had not gone away. Not only was the tribe still stinking worse than an antiquated sewage plant, the second spellsong had induced a second additional change in their demeanor. Every one of them, irrespective of species, had turned a shocking shade of pink.

“You couldn’t make them think,” said Weegee, “so you made them stink and pink.”

“I just don’t understand,” Jon-Tom muttered to himself. “The songs both sounded so right.”

“I wouldn’t try tellin’ ‘em that, mate. Not that you could make ‘em any madder. Wotever you do don’t say you can’t change ‘em back or they’ll ‘ave us on the spit on the spot.”

“Got it.” He turned to Cautious. “Tell the chief that the magic doesn’t always work right the first time. I’m sorry for the unpleasant results, but after I rest I can make everything right again. When this kind of magic occurs you have to wait a while between spelling or you just make things worse.”

Clearly the chief and his advisors didn’t care one whit for this explanation, but they didn’t have much choice. Jon-Tom knew it and they knew it. The mongoose snapped an order. A platoon of furious, brightly hued and extremely smelly hunters promptly herded Jon-Tom and his friends to one end of the village and into a large, sturdy wooden cage. This was suspended from a thick rope fashioned of interwoven vines which ran through a wooden pulley hung from a high overhead branch. The captives bounced helplessly as they were hauled up until the cage dangled twenty feet off the ground. Looking down between the bottom poles they could watch the villagers jabbing weapons and fingers in their direction.

“I don’t mind that,” Mudge commented, “but I wish they’d do it from a distance. They stink somethin’ terrible, an’ they look worse.”

Weegee slapped a paw over his mouth. “Whatever you do, luv, don’t laugh. Keep in mind ‘tis Jon-Tom they need to fix things. The rest of us are expendable. That apparently hasn’t occurred to them yet. Let’s not give them a reason to think of it.” He nodded and she removed her paw.

“I ought to ‘ave bit your fingers, luv, but you’re right.” He sat on one of the poles that formed the bottom of the cage. “So ‘ow do we get out o’ this one, spellsinger?”

Jon-Tom leaned against a corner of the prison and brooded. “I thought I was getting us out of it.” He was staring at the suar, trying to wish an additional set of strings and better controls into existence. “I wish Clothahump was here.”

“Wot’s this? Losin’ a bit o’ our confidence, are we?”

“Hey, gimme a break. At least they’re not getting ready to barbecue us. Maybe the magic was unconventional, but it did buy us a breathing spell.”

Weegee had a delicate lace handkerchief wrapped around her muzzle. “Poor choice of words, Jon-Tom.”

“I don’t know wot you’re all cryin’ about. I’ve smelted worse in me time.”

“I’ve no doubt of that,” she told him, “judging from the descriptions of some of the dens of iniquity Jon-Tom’s told me he’s dragged you out of.”

“Wot’s that?” The otter shot a look in his tall friends’s direction. “Wot false’oods ‘ave you been feeding ‘er when me back were turned?”

“Only the truth.”

The otter threw up his hands., “The truth? Ain’t you got no more brains than to tell a lady the truth, mate?”

“What do you mean by that?” Weegee snapped, and the two of them launched into a violent argument that if nothing else took their minds off their present precarious situation. Cautious sat down and cleaned beneath his claws. Jon-Tom envied them all their ability to relax.

Worst of all was, he found himself wondering what he would taste like.

VIII

They were provided with food and water the following morning. By late afternoon their captors had evidently decided how to handle their unwelcome guests. A creaking announced the lowering of the cage as a half dozen warriors slowly let the rope slide through its pulley. Jon-Tom clutched the bars and peered downward.