neetha Napew - The Paths Of The Perambulator

Jon-Tom was brushing dirt from the sleeves of his indigo shirt. “What’s so special about this one?”

“The trees ‘ave their ways o’ makin’ sure that at least some of the seeds they scatter aren’t disturbed by ‘ungry passersby, mate, be they intelligent like meself or dumb like the forest browsers and yourself.” Leaning forward, he slowly inspected the cone from every conceivable angle before gingerly picking it up in both hands. Turning, he showed it to the others, handling it as delicately as a hollow egg.

Jon-Tom leaned close. “Looks like a normal pinecone to me.”

“O’ course it does, lad. ‘Tis supposed to. But look ‘ere.” He pointed with a finger, not touching the cone. “See there? The top ring o’ seed covers is missin’, wot? It didn’t get knocked off in the fall, and it weren’t eaten by some traveler. The tree pulled it out when it dropped the cone.”

“I still don’t understand. So what?”

“So this is wot, mate. Wot ‘appens if you picks it up and tries to make a meal o’ its seeds or kicks it playful like.” He turned, drew back his arm, and threw the cone as far as he could over a pile of boulders.

There was a second of silence followed by a substantial explosion. Jon-Tom flinched. Orange flame seared the sky, shadowed by black smoke. As the smoke began to dissipate Mudge turned to face him, paws on hips.

“Just a discouragin’ shock to the would-be seed-eater. It would’ve blown your bloomin’ leg off, mate.”

“I—I didn’t know, Mudge.” His throat was dry as he stared at the fading smoke. “It’s a damn good thing the pinecones on my world aren’t like that.”

Mudge resumed the march, falling in step behind Clothahump and Dormas. “Oh, I expect there’re some like that everywhere, lad.”

“No, you’re wrong about that. I’ve never heard of anyone being killed by an exploding pinecone.”

The otter cocked a challenging eye at him. “Don’t you ‘ave curious folk wot goes a-travelin’ through woods like these and never comes out again?”

“Of course we do. But they perish from hunger or thirst or snakebite or something like that. Not from stepping on exploding pinecones.”

“ ‘Ow do you know, mate, if you never find ‘em?”

“We find most of them.”

The otter was persistent. “But wot about those who just up an’ disappear?”

“Well, they’re presumed to have fallen off a mountainside or died in a cave or something.”

“Ha! ‘Ow does you find the pieces o’ someone who’s been blown to bits in a heavily wooded area? The scavengers would clean up wot didn’t get vaporized.”

Jon-Tom lifted his eyes to stare resolutely straight ahead. “This is a ridiculous conversation, and I refuse to continue with it.”

“Are there lots o’ pine trees in your world, mate? Trees like this?”

“Mudge”—Jon-Tom sighed—”there are millions of them, and many of them have been cut down en masse for lumber and such. I never heard of anyone being blown up while working as a logger.”

“D’you think the trees are bleedin’ stupid? They know they can’t stop a whole lot o’ folks workin’ in unison. So they tries to pick ‘em off one at a time when nobody else is around to see.”

“I’m not listening to this anymore!” So saying, he stepped off to one side and began picking the occasional ripe redberry, popping it angrily into his mouth. The tart juice did nothing to sweeten his disposition. A quick glance showed Clothahump smiling at him, and that made him even angrier.

Exploding pinecones! Inimical pine trees! The whole business was absurd. Clothahump and Mudge were having fun at his expense. There were no such mutated monstrosities on his world. Of course people disappeared in the forest, in places like Oregon and Montana. People who were stupid enough to go tramping through the wilderness all by their lonesome. They deserved to stumble over a cliff, or into an unswimmable river, or . . .

To trip over an explosive pinecone?

It was too bizarre a notion to countenance.

Nonetheless, this was not his world, and he refrained from kicking any more fallen cones as they trudged onward. One fell from an overhanging branch, making him jump. Mudge started to giggle, stifled it, and hid his face when Jon-Tom threw him a murderous look. He picked the cone up and turned it over. The top ring of seed shells was present. Fortunately.

He tossed it angrily aside. When he got home, he’d dispose of this stupid theory during his first visit to the mountains.

He just wouldn’t kick any cones first, he told himself thoughtfully.

Evening revealed an unexpected talent on the part of their tireless packer. In addition to an acerbic wit and strong back, it also developed that Dormas was the owner of a superb, lilting soprano voice. Not to mention a lifetime of songs and ballads, which she proceeded to deliver to them while seated around the fire. Enthusiastic applause punctuated the conclusion of the impromptu recital. The hinny looked away, unexpectedly embarrassed.

“I don’t do it often,” she told them, “but frankly, you lot bore me, and I’d rather hear myself sing than listen to you babble.”

“I’d rather listen to you sing too,” Jon-Tom told her. Then he frowned. Something was not right. Not radically wrong but not right, either. “Odd. I feel peculiar all of a sudden.” He held up a hand. His hand, definitely, and yet—somehow changed.

“Another perturbation.” Sorbl spoke from his evening perch in a nearby tree and he, too, did not sound quite right. Jon-Tom let his gaze wander around the firelit circle.

There was Sorbl, the same and yet not. There Mudge, also somehow subtly different. What kind of perturbation was this? And still the peculiar softness that had come over him.

Not quite like an upset stomach. Something more complete, less transitory. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

Then he did put his finger on it, in several places.

“Oh, my God.” He looked anxiously up at Clothahump. “This is one change that better not last too long.”

“I have been taking note of the most recent alteration with a great deal of interest.” The wizard’s appearance had changed only slightly. His voice, however, had undergone the same kind of shift as Jon-Tom’s. It was still penetrating, still authoritative, but an octave higher.

Moans came from Mudge and then Sorbl as they discovered the nature of the latest outrage perpetrated by the perambulator upon their personal reality.

“It is not nearly as radical a change as many we have previously experienced,” Clothahump calmly pointed out. “Some perturbations result in changes far more subtle than others.”

Dormas was studying her altered physiognomy intently. “Fascinating. I always wondered what it would be like. Seems kind of clumsy, though. I wouldn’t want it to be permanent, either.”

“The degree of change varies according to the species, of course,” the wizard reminded them all.

“This is what you call a ‘subtle’ perturbation?” Jon-Tom barely recognized the voice that spoke as his own.

There was nothing complex or indeterminate about this latest perturbation. The effects were quite clear. Each and every one of them had shifted sex. Without warning the hopeful expedition had become a quartet of ladies accompanied by a single male.

“When’s it goin’ to change back?” Mudge was moaning. Squeaking, rather, in his new, high voice. “ Tis only another temporary change. Ain’t that right, Your Sorcerership?”

“There is no way of telling how long this particular perturbation will last, Mudge. No way at all.” Jon-Tom noted that the pattern of red on his shell had changed to a distinctive mauve.

“It bloody well better not last long. Damn lucky we ain’t in Ospenspri. I couldn’t show me face, I couldn’t.”