neetha Napew - The Paths Of The Perambulator

“Consider this: On our previous journeys we’ve had to deal with whatever danger threatened us by ourselves. Clothahump’s with us this time. Between his knowledge and my spellsinging we can handle anything that’s thrown against us.”

“Some’ow that don’t inspire me confidence, mate.” Mudge was silent for a long moment, then jerked a thumb back over his shoulder. “Wot about our ladyship back there? She appears to ‘ave as strong a back as she does a tongue, but she’s gettin’ on in years. We’ll find ourselves in a fine pickle if the old tart ups and quits on us in the middle o’ the back o’ beyond. I’m not one for haulin’ a pile o’ supplies up a steep grade.”

“Dormas will be fine. And we’re all getting on in years, Mudge.” Jon-Tom spoke from the rarefied heights of one who has yet to turn twenty-five. “I’ve found that this world tends to age you rapidly.”

“It does if you lead the kind o’ life we’ve led this past year or so,” Mudge readily agreed. “I expect you’re right about the old darlin’, but I can’t ‘elp wishin’ we ‘ad a bit more o’ the mundane ‘elp o’ extra arms and fighters. Pity you can’t run out and find that dragon friend o’ yours.”

“What, Falameezar? The last time I saw him he was swimming steadily southward from Quasequa. You know how far that is from here. And he wouldn’t do too well up in the Plateau country. He likes warm water and warmer air, and from what Clothahump’s told me of where we’re headed, we’re going to find precious little of either.”

“Cold won’t bother me. We otters are as at ‘ome in cold temperatures as hot. ‘Tis you I worry about, lad.”

“Why, Mudge? I appreciate the concern.”

“Concern, ‘ell. If your buns freeze to the ground, that’s one less sword arm I’ve got standin’ at my side, not to mention the loss o’ your spellsingin’, which some’ow does seem to work from time to time. You ‘aven’t a bit o’ decent fur on you to protect you from the cold.”

Jon-Tom stared straight ahead. “I’ll be okay as long as we beat the onset of winter in the mountains.”

“And if we don’t?”

“Then you can haul my frozen carcass back here, dump it in a hundred-gallon martini, and drink to my demise. You worry too much. I feel as strong as an ox.”

“Aye, and with a brain to match. I wish I were feelin’ as well meself.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m just not feelin’ meself is all.”

“It couldn’t have anything to do with your life-style by any chance?”

“I admit that ‘as occurred to me, mate. So I’ve decided to cut down on wenchin’, eatin’, and drinkin’.”

“Your timing’s good. You won’t have the chance to indulge to excess on any of those on this trip.”

“Aye, that’s me point. That’s why I don’t feel well. Because I’m goin’ to ‘ave to cut down on wenchin’, and eatin’—”

“And drinking,” Jon-Tom finished for him, shaking his head. “And I thought there might be something seriously wrong with you.” Disgusted, he increased his stride.

“Why, mate,” Mudge asked, looking honestly puzzled as he hurried to keep up with his tall friend, “wot could be worse than that?”

“Than what?” Jon-Tom snapped at him.

“Than moderation o’ course.”

VI

True to her word, Dormas not only kept up with them as they left Ospenspri behind the following morning but, despite her heavy load, was impatient to take the lead. So frequently did she make the request that Clothahump had to remind her of his own advanced age and of the fact that two legs, no matter how strong, could never keep pace with four.

Jon-Tom was sure she was showing what she could do if she wanted to, in order to establish herself as a qualified member of the expedition right from the start. In any case, after the first long, hard day of walking, there were no more comments about her age or hauling ability from Mudge or anyone else. Jon-Tom recalled her initial reaction when they’d finished loading her outside the inn.

“Is that all? Hell, you boys don’t need a hinny to haul this stuif for you. A couple of pack rats would’ve done as well.”

Despite her admonition against riding, she did allow Sorbl to rest from time to time atop the uppermost sack. Resting, she explained, was not riding. Jon-Tom got a kick out of watching the owl bob back and forth atop the mountain of supplies, clinging to a strap with his clawed feet and looking like nothing else but a feathered hood ornament. He would ride that way for a moment or two before rising toward the clouds to resume his aerial patrol of the terrain below.

Donnas’ s endurance had a salutary effect on Clothahump’s companions as well. They were spared the usual unending litany of complaints about the wizard’s sore feet, his rheumatism, and the weight of his shell. Instead, he held his peace, ground his beak in silence, and said nothing as they traversed the difficult places. Jon-Tom was glad of his long legs. Mudge possessed neither long legs, wizardry determination, wings, or an extra pair of walking limbs. He compensated for these deficiencies with typically unflagging otterish energy.

North of Ospenspri the woods were mostly uninhabited. As they climbed higher they began to lose the Belltrees themselves, along with the more familiar oaks and sycamores. Evergreens took their place. Jon-Tom thought he recognized sugar and pinon pine as well as blue spruce. There were also more exotic varieties, including one stalwart growth whose three-inch-long needles were as sharp as a porcupine’s quills. Mudge identified the most dangerous growths and led his companions carefully around them. They couldn’t harm the armored Clothahump, but a casual misstep could turn any of the rest of the marchers into green pincushions.

With Sorbl scouting overhead and Clothahump relentless in his examination of the forest floor, Jon-Tom found he was able to relax and enjoy the hike. The evergreens, the bare rock, the pinecones that littered the ground reminded him of Oregon or Montana.

As they climbed out of the lowland forest onto the Plateau, he amused himself by kicking twigs and pinecones out of their path. He was about to boot aside a particularly large cone when he found himself knocked to the ground. He rolled over, furious and confused.

“What’s the big idea, Mudge?” The otter had tackled him from behind. Carefully he checked his precious duar, let out a sigh of relief when he’d concluded his anxious inspection. “You could have busted this!”

“Better it than you, mate.” The otter nudged the feather that adorned his cap back over his head. It had fallen forward over one eye when he’d jumped at Jon-Tom’s legs. Clothahump, Sorbl, and Dormas stood nearby, watching.

Mudge indicated the huge pinecone, careful not to touch it. “Wot about you, Your Wizardship? You recognize this charmin’ little gift o’ the forest primeval?”

Clothahump squinted through his glasses at the seemingly innocent cone that lay in the middle of the path. “Your eyes are as sharp as your tongue, river rat.” He lifted his gaze to Jon-Tom. “You should be thanking your friend instead of shouting at him.”

“For what?” Jon-Tom was still irritated, still saw no reason for the abruptness of the otter’s action. After all, it was only an ordinary—

He halted in mid-thought. He’d learned little enough of this world in the time he’d been marooned in it, but one thing he had learned early on was that there was little in it that could be defined as ordinary.

“Everybody loves pine nuts. Some o’ me near relations will do just about anything for a handful.” Mudge stood surveying the cone. “I’ve been nibblin’ on ‘em meself as the occasion permitted. ‘Tis a fine and ‘andy snack for travelers in a ‘urry like ourselves.”