neetha Napew - The Paths Of The Perambulator

“Crikey,” Mudge murmured in realization, “they’re a bloody lot o’ cannibals.”

In the center of the two semicircles was a wooden platform surmounted by a single post. A trio of barbarically clad pikas tended a fire beneath it. They were careful not to let the flames rise high enough to threaten the wood. The purpose of the blaze was to produce as much smoke as possible in order to make life as diflficult as possible for the single leather-clad individual who was tied to the pole above. This the pikas achieved by feeding the flames a steady diet of damp leaves and bark.

The unfortunate prisoner was wearing snakeskin-pants and shirt, leather boots, and fingerless leather gloves. Brass spikes studded his clothing from the top of the short boots to the broad shoulders. Jon-Tom was unable to tell just from looking whether these bits of metal were designed to serve for decoration or defense. Among^ some warlike people they did double duty.

Around a considerable waist the prisoner wore a brass-studded belt. A matching collar girdled his neck. He was about four and a half feet tall, though he appeared shorter because he was bent over as much as his bonds would permit, coughing and wheezing, unable to avoid inhaling the thick black smoke that rose from beneath him.

A hook hammered into one corner of the platform supported a large knapsack fashioned of the same black leather the prisoner wore. It bulged with unseen objects. Tied to it was a thin saber that was nearly as tall as the prisoner himself.

From time to time a light breeze would disturb the fog long enough for the hidden spectators to get a decent view of the prisoner. His face and large furry ears were instantly recognizable. Species identification was as easy as it was surprising.

“What’s he doing here?” Jon-Tom asked of no one in particular. “I thought koalas preferred tropical climes. I haven’t encountered one anywhere in the Bellwoods.”

“They are not frequent visitors to our part of the world, it is true.” Clothahump was straining for a better view of the prisoner. “Certainly this one is a long way from his home, though he is not dressed improperly for this climate.”

“The poor slob.” Dormas sniffed sympathetically. “Wonder what he did to get himself taken prisoner and subjected to such treatment?”

“Probably just trespassing.” Mudge started to inch his way backward. “Right. We’ve seen enough to satisfy any aberrant biological curiosity. Now ‘tis time to leave, right?”

“Wrong. Their intentions are pretty damn clear. They’re going to slowly suffocate him. No one deserves that kind of death.”

“ ‘Ow do you know that, mate? Maybe this one’s committed some kind o’ heinous crime against this lot o’ savages. Maybe ‘e’s been fairly judged and condemned. Wot ‘ave I told you about tryin’ to foist your moral precepts on other folk?” He nodded toward the encampment. “Look at ‘ow ‘e’s dressed, will you? A rough bloke for sure. Me, I says they deserve each other.”

“If he’s guilty of some crime, I’d like to know about it,” Jon-Tom responded. “If not, we’d be morally derelict to let him die slowly like that. I’d like to think a passing traveler might do as much for me someday.”

“Not bloody likely,” the otter grumbled. “I thought you’d been ‘ere long enough to know better than that, mate.”

“I would very much like to know his story,” Clothahump declared. “Not only how he comes to find himself in this dangerous situation but also how he comes to be in this lonely part of the world in the first place.”

“That’s fine, that is! I should’ve stayed back at the camp.”

“Mudge, where’s your concern for your fellow being?”

“In me left ‘ip pocket, where it belongs. As for that, those ‘appy dirge drippers down there are as much me fellows as that armored fat bear. I ain’t enamored o’ their table manners, but that doesn’t mean I’m about to risk me own arse to try and rescue some other fool’s.”

Jon-Tom turned his attention back to the encampment. It was clear that the prisoner was rapidly becoming too weak even to cough. “We have to do something.”

“Swell, guv. You an’ old rockback ‘ere ‘ave a stroll on in, untie the object o’ your pity, an’ announce to that angelic choir that you’re sorry but the party’s over and you’re all leavin’ together. I’m certain they’ll understand. They’ll be delighted—that they ‘ave three carcasses for the smoker.”

“Much as my curiosity—and my sense of justice, of course—draws me toward that poor unfortunate,” Clothahump said, “the water rat does have a point. We have a much greater responsibility. I do not see how we can risk everything to rescue this one individual.”

Jon-Tom considered a long moment before replying. “You’re right,sir. So is Mudge.”

The otter looked surprised but pleased. “About time you started showin’ some o’ the sense I’ve spent a year poundin’ into you, mate.”

“We can free him without risking a thing.” He started to unlimber his duar.

It did not take a wizard to divine Jon-Tom’s intentions. “Are you sure you want to try this, my boy? While it is true that this will not expose us to retaliation at first, it will not take long for those forest-dwellers below to locate us if you fail.”

“Don’t worry, sir. This one’s going to be a cinch.” He started tuning the instrument immediately. “I’ve got it all figured out. Most of the problems I have with my spellsinging come from my usually being rushed to come up with an appropriate song and then having to perform it before I’m completely ready. But I’ve had a chance to listen to these people and to observe them. I know just what I’m going to do, and I don’t see how I can fail.”

“Your confidence is reassuring and, I hope, not misplaced. Why are you so sure of yourself, my boy?”

Jon-Tom grinned at him. “Because I’m going to use their own music against them. I’ve got the basic rhythm of that chanting down pat. I’m going to do a rock version of their own hymn and add my own words.” He let his fingers fall across the familiar strings. “It’s pretty much all two-four time. I can play riffs off that in my sleep.”

“A fine idea, lad,” said Mudge. “I’ll just meet the lot o’ you back in camp, wot?” He turned and started back the way they’d come.

“Don’t mind him,” Dormas said, smiling at Jon-Tom. “I have confidence in you. Go on—blow the furry little shitheads back into the trees.”

“Well, I hope the results aren’t that severe.” He cleared his throat. He wanted only to free the prisoner, not perpetrate a massacre. He launched into his own interpretation of the mass chanting below, utilizing the duar at maximum volume and trying to sing the improvised song with as much grace and clarity as an Ozzy Osbourne.

The reaction was instantaneous. Sticks froze in the air halfway to drums. The hooting of flutes and the rattle of tambourines ceased. The chanting stopped as every eye in the valley below turned to stare up at the twisting, gyrating figure atop the ridge.

Jon-Tom had hoped that his version of the chant would paralyze the heavily armed warriors below. It did nothing of the kind. But while the tribefolk were not mesmerized by the heavy metal chords emanating from Jon-Tom’s instrument, neither did they come charging up the hill brandishing their spears and clubs.

Instead they started running. Not toward the singer but away from him. In every direction. As they ran they cast aside what weapons they held. The females joined them, kicking over cookpots and piles of laboriously gathered food.

Even the cubs scampered off in full retreat. Their wailing and crying was pitiful to hear. The warriors threw away their weapons because they needed their hands—to clasp over their ears or to fold them flat against the tops of their heads. Within a very short time the last inhabitant of the village had vanished among the trees. That was when a new voice rose above the silence below.