neetha Napew - The Paths Of The Perambulator

Jon-Tom made a face. “Your gift for metaphor is as .effervescent as ever, Mudge.”

“I ‘ope that’s as dirty as it sounds, mate.”

“More than one of them, whoever they are.” The hinny’s nostrils flexed. Jon-Tom was acutely conscious of his olfactory inadequacies. Compared to any one of his companions, he was virtually scent-blind.

“Any idea how many of them there might be?” Clothahump asked her.

“Can’t say. Don’t matter, anyways, does it?” She glanced down at him. “We’re not headed in that direction.”

“We cannot be certain which route we will employ to return.” The wizard considered the tantalizing fog thoughtfully. “I confess to curiosity. I should like to know through whose territory we have been traveling.” Behind him, Sorbl let out a groan.

“Me too,” avowed Dormas.

Mudge eyed first the hinny, then Clothahump in disbelief. “Wot’s with you two? Remember, curiosity killed the cat.”

“Not anybody I know.” Dormas started into the trees, dropped her head to sniff the damp ground ahead of them.

“We are far from Ospenspri, far north of any civilized town.” Clothahump put his glasses back on his beak. They immediately began to fog up again. “There can, however, be habitation without civilization. I have heard many tales of the wild tribes that are said to infest these infrequently visited north woods. It would be useful to obtain some firsthand knowledge of their ways.”

“Why don’t you just read a bleedin’ book about ‘em, guv’nor?”

“There is little to read, my water-loving fuzz-brain.” The wizard moved to follow in Dormas’s wake. “Few explorers come this way. They prefer the warmlands or the tropics. We have a unique opportunity here.”

“Aye, to become some shithead rat’s dinner.” Mudge looked up at Jon-Tom. “You see the wisdom in me words, don’t you, lad?”

“I see that wisdom is not gained without risks.” Clothahump smiled approvingly at him. “Sorry, Mudge.” He stepped forward to join the other two.

“You’re all bloody fools—not that that’s the surprise o’ the year.” The frustrated otter folded his arms and held his ground. What really made him angry was that they were ignoring him. He didn’t mind being screamed at, yelled at, or insulted, but when those whose opinion differed from his acted as though he didn’t exist, he wanted to stab something. Given his present company, however, even that release was denied to him. His knife couldn’t dent Clothahump’s shell, Jon-Tom would sense him coming, and Dormas’s arse was too high.

So he drew his short sword and relieved some of his frustration by hacking a nearby bush to pieces.

Jon-Tom, Dormas, and Clothahump continued to ignore their apoplectic companion. They were too busy trying to identify the source of the mysterious, eerie chanting that floated through the woods. It seemed as if it were being carried along by the fog itself, rising and falling, the cadence distinctive, the words unrecognizable.

“An ancient language,” the wizard commented, “doubtless handed down from chanter to chanter. It may be that those who sing no longer know the meaning of the words but continue to recite them because they believe they have power.”

Jon-Tom was no linguist, but even he could sense the age of the chants. They seemed to consist largely of grunts and groans, of the kinds of sounds animals would make: animals incapable of reason and speech and higher thought. A tribal legacy retained from a precivilized past. No wonder Clothahump was interested in the people who would make such sounds. He glanced back over a shoulder.

“Mudge, you’re the best stalker among us. Why don’t you lead the way?”

Having demolished the bush and returned his sap-stained sword to its scabbard, the otter resolutely turned his back on them. “Not me, guv’nor. Go stick your neck into the pot if you want to, but I’m stayin’ ‘ere.”

“Leave the water rat be,” Clothahump told his tall human charge. “We shall advance without him. If naught else, our approach will be quieter. Dormas, can you still smell them?”

“Faintly. It’ll get stronger as we get closer. Maybe this damn fog will lift a little too.”

They started forward. Sorbl rose from his perch to settle on the top of Dormas’s pack. Mudge looked at the owl in surprise.

“Sorbl? You’re not goin’, too, mate?”

“I have no choice.” The apprentice looked back at him. “I must go where my master goes.”

“Don’t worry, Mudge,” Jon-Tom told him. “We’ll be back in a little while. You can stay here and guard the campsite.”

“Wot? All by meself?” The otter gazed warily into the impenetrable, claustrophobic fog. He made a growling sound in his throat as he spoke to Jon-Tom. “You think you’re bloomin’ clever, don’t you, you ‘airless son of an ape? You know I ain’t likely to squat ‘ere on me fundament in this stinkin’ fog without anyone to watch me back.”

“Frankly I don’t care what you do, you spineless offspring of a cottonmouth, but if you’re coming with us, get up here and make yourself useful.”

Having concluded this exchange of pleasantries and having reavowed their undying friendship, Mudge joined Jon-Tom in leading the way. In fact, the otter took the lead, professing a desire to keep as far from his tall friend as possible.

Clothahump looked approvingly at his guest. “You are learning, my boy, that words are more useful than weapons.”

“What do you expect from somebody in law school? I’ve known Mudge long enough to know what buttons to push. He would’ve come along, anyway. He just likes to make it look like he’s been forced.”

“Don’t be too sure of your ability to manipulate him. Otters are an unpredictable lot. One thing I would never count on is for him to act in a predictable fashion.”

“Overconfidence on my part where Mudge is concerned isn’t something you need to worry yourself about, sir.”

They ascended a gentle slope, crossed a ravine, and climbed the heavily wooded far side. As they neared the crest of the ridge the chanting grew much louder. In addition to the voices they could now make out the sounds produced by individual drums, reed flutes, and something that sounded like an acerbic tambourine. Mudge motioned for silence, unnecessarily. It was clear they were very near the source of the singing. The time for conversation was past. It was time to listen and to observe.

Then they were able to see over the ridge. They found themselves looking down into a small valley. Set among the trees were semipermanent angular huts fashioned of twigs, branches, and mud. Fires danced in rock pits in front of two or three of the buildings. Laboriously gathered vegetation had been laid out to dry next to the flames. Berries of many kinds, nuts, and the thin, tender heart of some unknown plant were constantly being turned and patted clean by the females of several species.

“I see some ground squirrels,” Jon-Tom whispered. “I don’t recognize the ones with the small round ears.”

“Pikas.” Clothahump was squinting through his glasses. “The big fat ones are marmots. Notice their attire.”

Regardless of species, all were scantily clad in primitive garments. With their thick coats of fur, none required heavy outer clothing to protect them from the cold. Decorative skirts had been fashioned of tree bark pounded thin and softened with water. There was an extraordinary variety of headgear, ranging from simple headbands to elaborate tiaras of dried seeds and animal bones.

Away from the transitory village and off to the right, a group of musicians sat in a semicircle pounding or tootling or rattling their instruments. Seated in the semicircle opposing them were the chanters. These included all the senior males. They were dressed like warriors. In addition to their decorative necklaces and rings they wore headpieces made from the bleached, hollowed-out skulls of other creatures. Nor were all the gruesome chapeaus fashioned from the bones of prey animals.