neetha Napew - The Paths Of The Perambulator

“I never denied that were part o’ the reason behind me decision, guv. Anyways, things are slow ‘ere in Ospenspri, especially since that cloud come over the city, and you know ‘ow quickly yours truly can get dead-bored. Leavin’ aside ‘ow ‘ard it is to ‘old a set o’ dice properly when your back’s all bent out o’ shape.”

“I might have guessed. You wouldn’t be coming along if you weren’t broke as well as worried about your own skin.”

Mudge winked at him. “Mate, I wouldn’t go to a friend’s funeral if I didn’t think I’d ‘ave a shot at the ‘ankerchief concession. You know me that well, at least.”

“I guess I should be relieved. For a while there I wondered if the perturbation had affected your brain as well as your body.”

“Wot, me? Why, lad, old Mudge is as sturdy as the mountains, as free-runnin’ as the river Tailaroam, and as steady as the ground under our feet.”

At that moment the ground beneath their feet vanished. So did the sky above. Jon-Tom observed that he was floating in slighty murky blue-green water, staring at something that looked like a small barracuda. Off to his right was a bloated sunfish. Next to it drifted an armored throwback to the time when fish comprised the planet’s dominant life-form.

For a moment he struggled to catch his balance. He relaxed when it became clear that he was neither sinking nor drowning. He flexed his fins experimentally; first the dorsal, then the lateral, ventral last of all. The piscean analogs of Mudge, Dormas, and Clothahump stared back at him.

A new arrival zipped past his face. It was small, brightly colored, and fast. It began swimming rapid circles around Clothahump. “This is a bit much,” said the Sorbl-fish.

“Try to be calm,” Jon-Tom advised him. “We’ve been through worse.”

“Easy for you to say,” Sorbl shot back. “The master spends much time in water, and likewise your otterish friend, but I’m used to spending my time above the surface, not beneath it.”

“You think you’re the only one who’s stuck with a difficult psychological adjustment? I’m not exactly aquatic by nature, let alone by design, and Dormas even less so.”

“But you have been in water before,” the blue-striped darter protested. “I have cousins who have—cormorants and ducks and such—but I’ve never been beneath the waves in my life. I find it exceedingly distressing.”

“Oh, don’t put on such a show, you feathered twit!” This from the immediately recognizable floating version of Mudge. “I’ think I’m comfortable with fins instead o’ feet? Besides, if this ‘ere ocean were colored amber instead o’ blue-green, you’d probably feel right at ‘ome since you spend ‘alf your time moonin’ about near the bottom o’ a bottle, anyways.”

“I’m on the verge of a nervous breakdown and he adds insults,” grumbled the apprentice.

“Take it easy.” Jon-Tom spoke absently, fascinated by the alien environment in which he found himself. “The perturbation will end soon enough.”

“Oh, it will, will it? You’re certain of that, are you? Are you going to spellsing it back to reality with that fine instrument you’re carrying?”

Jon-Tom noted that where his duar ought to have hung there was only a broad strip of olive-green seaweed.

“Or,” Sorbl continued, “is the Master going to return the world to normal again by means of his potions and spells? Remember what happened to Ospenspri. If it has happened again, but differently this time, we will remain in this wet, stifling water world forever, locked into the forms we presently are inhabiting.” He darted through the water, zipping around Clothahump, then Mudge and Dormas.

“I don’t care what anyone says. It’s not like flying. It’s like—”

Before Sorbl had a chance to explain what it was like, a by now familiar snap took place somewhere in the vicinity of Jon-Tom’s optic nerves. His fins were gone and he was standing, as before, on the floor of Dormas’s stall. The hinny blinked at him, then at Clothahump. Mudge stumbled but caught himself before he fell. Sorbl was not so fortunate. He’d been racing wildly through the water when the perturbation ceased and had crashed headfirst into the wall. Now he sat on the floor, his great golden eyes half closed, holding the top of his head with the tips of both wings. But he was smiling through the pain. He had wings again, and the only water in sight occupied the lower portion of Donnas’s drink-big basin.

“I warned you,” said Clothahump evenly. “These perturbations can be dangerous even when they do not become permanent. During a change it is important not to make any sudden moves or take any risks. I think you will all agree that the reason for demonstrating such caution is self-explanatory.” He gestured to where Sorbl was climbing unsteadily to his feet. “Thank you for the example, famulus.”

“You can take your example,” Sorbl started to say, but wisely chose not to finish the suggestion.

“We have been further enlightened, and everything is settled,” the wizard concluded. He extended a thick hand. Donnas nudged it, and the bargain was sealed.

“Tomorrow morning, early,” she reminded them. “Where’re you staying?”

Clothahump gave her the name of the inn. “We will want to pack and be on our way immediately after breakfast.”

“Suits me fine, hard-shell.”

“I am looking forward to a fruitful collaboration and the eventual success of our mutual enterprise.”

“And I’m looking forward to using the John,” she replied. “So if you boys will excuse me?” She turned and moved toward a curtained partition near the back of the room.

Thus dismissed, they left to return to their own accommodations, to prepare themselves for the long, difficult climb that would begin when they bade farewell to Ospenspri on the morrow. By now the descriptions of the city’s saviors had been widely circulated among the citizenry, and they found that they were the center of polite attention as they strolled up the busy streets.

Most of it was focused on Clothahump, whose shell seemed to swell as he soaked up the stares and the occasional mild applause. The wizard wasn’t one to shrink from the opportunity to bask in the glow of his own radiance. Sorbl drifted along overhead, flying a straighter course than usual, sobered by his recent brief incarnation as a subsurface water dweller. So Mudge was able to sidle up close to Jon-Tom to chat without fear of being overheard.

“Tell me true, mate; wot do you think our chances are?”

“Chances of wot—I mean, of what, Mudge?”

“Don’t play games with me, lad. We’ve been through too much together. You know wot I means. Our chances o’ goosin’ this perbabutater, or wotever it turns out to be, back to where it belongs?”

“According to Clothahump it will leave of its own accord once the restraints restricting its movement have been removed. The danger we face is from whoever is keeping it trapped in our world. Since I’ve no idea what we’re up against there, I can’t very well tell you what the odds are of our defeating it.”

Mudge looked crestfallen. “I can always depend on you for encouragement and succor, mate.”

“We’ll make out all right, Mudge. We always have.”

“That’s wot worries me. I keep worryin’ that the police are goin’ to catch up with me one o’ these days. Or an old lover. Or someone who lost to me at cards. But the thing I worry most about catchin’ up with old Mudge is the bloody law o’ averages, and I fear that on this trip it may be dogging me tail a mite too near for comfort.”

“Come on. Where’s the optimistic, always cheerful Mudge I know best?”

“Back down the road to Lynchbany about a hundred leagues or so.”