neetha Napew - The Paths Of The Perambulator

The chill did not trouble the thickly furred Mudge or the heavily feathered (and well-lubricated) Sorbl. Nor did it appear to bother Dormas. But both Jon-Tom and Clothahump were warm-weather types. They could cope with the late fall weather but not with snow and ice.

The extent of Clothahump’s concern for the weather was indicated by the fact that he alluded to it at least once a day. “We must find and release the perambulator soon, or winter will trap us here on the plateau. I am not anxious to save the world, only to freeze to death as a result of doing so.”

“We’ll make it,” Jon-Tom assured him confidently. “If we run into any serious weather on the way out, Dormas can carry us. Remember, her contract stipulates that her ban against riders doesn’t include the injured or incapacitated.”

“She would still require assistance in finding her way back down the plateau.”

“Sorbl can guide her.”

The wizard let out a snort of derision. “I would not trust my famulus to guide me to the bathroom.”

“All right, then, Mudge could do it.”

Clothahump glanced at Mudge, who was blissfully whistling away, cracking nuts on a flat boulder with a fist-sized chunk of granite. Then he looked back at Jon-Tom.

“I am glad that after all you have been through these past months, you still retain your unique sense of humor.”

“I know that sometimes Mudge acts like less than the ideal companion, but if it came down to a real life-or-death situation, I’m sure he’d be there to help me. He’s demonstrated that he’s prepared to do that on several previous occasions.”

“Which is no indication that he hasn’t experienced a change of heart,” the wizard argued. “I think your confidence is badly misplaced, my boy.”

“Well, I disagree. Mudge and I understand each other.” He turned and raised his voice. “Don’t we, Mudge?”

The otter looked up, ostentatiously chewing the fruits of his labors, and eyed the tall young man quizzically. “Don’t we wot, mate?”

“Understand one another. I was just telling Clothahump that if I fell down to die in the snow, you’d drag or carry me to safety.”

“Why, o’ course I would! Wot are mates for if they can’t depend on one another? I’d pull you until the soles wore out o’ me boots an’ me ‘ands were raw an’ bleedin’ from the effort o’ draggin’ your oversize skinny carcass back to civilization. I’d get you to warmth and nursin’ at the risk o’ me own life. I’d haul and haul until—”

“Don’t overdo it, Mudge.”

“Right, mate.” The otter turned back to his remaining unopened victuals.

“You see?” Jon-Tom told the wizard. Clothahump smiled back at him.

“And, of course, the otter has never lied to you.”

“Oh, he’s fudged the truth a little now and then, but when the chips are down, Mudge is up.”

“Hmph! Up and away, I should say.”

Silence took up a stance between them. Just as well, or Jon-Tom might have said something disrespectful to the old magic-maker. Of course, Mudge meant what he said! He was a faithful companion and good friend. He found himself glancing ever so surreptitiously in the otter’s direction and was ashamed to confess that Clothahump’s pessimism had started him to thinking unflattering thoughts about the otter.

He finished his cup of tea angrily.

The following morning revealed a northern landscape filled with towering, snow-clad peaks. Jon-Tom stared at the precipitous crags, asked dubiously, “We’re not going to have to go up into that, are we?”

Clothahump shaded his eyes as he considered the terrain confronting them. “I don’t know, my boy. I have traced the perambulator this far, but it is difficult to ascertain its location with absolute precision. We can only continue to follow the line that lies between it and the home tree. I only hope its prison is accessible to us.”

“And wot if she ain’t, guv’nor?” Mudge was more surefooted than any of them, but even he had no stomach for challenging the mountains that lay in front of them. “We turn back for ‘ome an’ ‘ope that everything turns out for the best?”

“Nothing turns out for the best, my furry friend, unless you strive to make it do so. Hope is no substitution for hard work. Wherever the perambulator is being held, that is where we must go. Somehow.” He led them onward.

Those towering peaks and sheer granite walls still lay a long way ahead of them. It was possible that they would encounter the perambulator and its captor long before any real climbing was necessary. Everyone hoped so. Jon-Tom could only gaze on the wizard with new admiration. While everyone was complaining about the possibility that they might have to do some difficult climbing, no one had remarked on the fact that of them all, Clothahump was the least equipped to do so.

Several days more brought no sign that they were any closer to their goal, but it did present them with a new challenge: fog. No more than ever they had to rely on Clothahump to guide them, for in the thick, cloying grayness Sorbl could not fly and scout out the easiest path ahead.

Mudge sniffed endlessly, nervously, at the damp, moist air. “Never did care much for this stuff. There’s them that think it romantic. Me, I says that’s tallywabble. ‘Ow’s a person supposed to watch out for ‘imself in this gray crap?”

“Reminds me of movies I’ve seen of the Golden Gate, in San Francisco.”

That piqued the otter’s interest and raised his spirits as well. “A gate made out o’ gold! That’s the first reference you’ve made to your world that interests me, mate. Maybe she ain’t as bad a place to live as you make it out to be.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, but the gate I’m referring to isn’t made out of gold. That’s just a name given to it because of how it looks at certain times of day.”

“Oh, that’s the case, is it? Doesn’t compare to the jeweled gate of Motaria, then? Pity. As for Motaria, I’ve ‘card tales that say . . .” And he proceeded to spin the story without having to be prompted by Jon-Tom. When he finally ran out of words, the fog was thicker than ever.

They walked on in silence. Mudge kept sniffing the air, searching the dampness for suggestions of possible danger, when the discordant mumbling from off to his right finally made him search out his tall friend once more.

“Look, mate, I don’t mind you practicin’ your spellsingin’, but I’d be obliged if you could do it a mite more quietly.” Jon-Tom didn’t look at him. He was scanning the forest, 128

what he could see of it through the fog. “I haven’t been spellsinging, Mudge. In fact, I was just going to ask you to be quiet.”

“Me? I ‘aven’t so much as—”

“Nobody can hear themselves think over all that damned sniffing of yours. But I think I hear something else.”

Mudge frowned but stood quietly, save for one involuntary sniff. His gaze narrowed slightly. “Blimey, you’re right, mate. I ‘eard bad singin’ for sure, but it weren’t you.” Dormas had trotted over to join them. She stood next to Jon-Tom, her nose held high to sample the air, her ears cocked alertly forward.

“I hear it, too, boys. Some kind of singing or chanting. Think I can smell something also.”

“What species?” Clothahump’s eyes and ears were neither as sharp as Mudge’s nor as sensitive as Dormas’s. Besides which, he was fully occupied with trying to keep moisture from congealing on his glasses. He wiped them with a cloth as he stared into the fog.

“Rodentia, I think.” Dormas inhaled deeply. “There’s so much water in the air, it’s tough to say.”

“Right about that, lass. Take a deep whiff and ‘tis like blowin’ your nose backwards.”