neetha Napew - The Paths Of The Perambulator

“For sanity’s sake stop that horrible noise and come and untie me! Or else put a spear through my heart and put me out of my suffering now!” The koala tried to add something more but broke down in a fit of coughing. The fire beneath him was still smoldering.

Abashed, Jon-Tom halted in mid-phrase and turned to regard his companions. Apparently the prisoner was not alone in his agony. Mudge had fallen against a tree and was only now removing his paws from his ears. Sorbl still had the tips of his wings pressed to his, while poor Dormas was gritting her teeth in pain. Somehow she had managed to fold the ends of her own ears in on themselves. Clothahump had retreated completely into the relative safety of his shell.

Now he emerged, popping legs and arms out first and his head last of all. His glasses hung askew from his beak. He straightened them as he walked up to Jon-Tom and put a hand on the spellsinger’s arm. The fingers were shaking slightly.

“Do as he says, my boy.”

Jon-Tom looked out into the fog. “What if they’re trying to sneak around behind us?”

“I do not believe they wish to remain anywhere in the immediate vicinity.”

“Then my spellsinging worked?”

The wizard cleared his throat delicately. “Let us just say that they did not find your interpretation of their ancient ceremonial to their liking.”

“Oh.” He paused thoughtfully, then added, “Neither did the rest of you, huh?”

“It held our attention. Let us leave it at that.”

“Aye,” said Mudge loudly, “like ‘avin’ an anvil dropped on your “ead.”

“The combination of an extremely primitive rhythmic line combined with what you refer to as your variety of contemporary music as rendered on the duar apparently possesses unexpected strengths.”

“Are you saying, sir, that no magic was involved? That it was my singing alone that made them want to flee?”

“No, mate. What ‘Is Sorcererness is sayin’ is that your singin’ o’ that old music and your new music made ‘em an’ the rest of us as well want to run screamin’ an’ pukin’ through the bloody forest.”

“I see.” He shrugged, took a deep breath. “Well, anyway, it worked.”

“Are you up there going to untie me or not?” The koala’s voice was surprisingly deep and resonant. It made him sound much more massive than he was.

“Bleedin’ impatient sort o’ chap, ain’t ‘e?” Mudge and Sorbl started down the hill. Jon-Tom waited until Mudge was out of earshot before turning to Clothahump again.

“What you’re really trying to say, sir, is that my singing hasn’t improved any.”

“I suppose it would not be terribly undiplomatic of me to admit that I do not think it has kept pace with your playing, my boy. There is, sadly, a quality, a timbre if you will, which renders your voice somewhat less than sweet-sounding to a sensitive ear. The native chant was not exactly melodious to begin with. Your singing backed by the playing of the duar did not exactly enhance what slight harmonious overtones it possessed.”

“That bad, huh?”

“I believe that for once the otter did not exaggerate in his description. Do not look so downcast. It is the results that matter. You are a spellsinger, not a bard.”

“I know, but I want to be a bard! I can’t help it if I don’t sound like Lionel Richie or Daltrey.”

“I am sorry, my boy, but it appears that you may have to settle for being a spellsinger.”

He ought to be pleased, he told himself as they waited for Mudge and Sorbl to return with the freed prisoner. He could do things no other musician could do. He could send his enemies fleeing in panic, could conjure up wonders, could move small mountains. The trouble was, what he wanted more than anything else was to be able to sing.

And he tried so hard to sound like a McCartney or Waite, only to end up producing a noise that must have resembled a cross between AC/DC’s Angus McKie and a sex-starved moose. Come to think of it, McKie and the moose didn’t sound all that different from one another.

He kept his eyes on the forest and fog enclosing them, his hands on the duar. Despite Clothahump’s reassurances, he wanted to be ready in the event that some brave warrior did try to slip in behind them.

Before he sang that chant again, though, he’d have to remember to warn his companions.

VIII

Mudge’s knife made short work of the ropes that secured the prisoner to the pole, while Sorbl used his beak on the smaller bonds that bound the koala’s wrists. Mudge had to catch him once he was freed, so cramped had his muscles become from disuse and the severe restraints. While the otter helped him up the slope, Sorbl plucked his knapsack from the corner platform post and flew back toward his master.

Eventually otter and koala reached the top of the ridge. The former prisoner was still coughing, though neither as violently nor as frequently as when he’d been tied to the post. It would take awhile before his lungs were completely cleared. His eyes were badly bloodshot and he wiped at them repeatedly. Mudge eased him over to a fallen log and gently sat him down.

He sat silently for a while, catching his breath and letting his lungs clear, only his large furry ears moving. The black nose was wet and running from having inhaled too much soot. Eventually he looked up at them and spoke again in that unexpectedly profound, deep voice.

“Thanks, friends. Not everyone would go out of their way like that to save a stranger, though I had a pretty good idea something like this was going to happen. Darned if I wasn’t starting to get a little worried, though. I’m obliged.”

“What do you mean you ‘had an idea something like this was going to happen’?” Jon-Tom said.

“We can talk about it later. Right now we’re still a mite too close to that fire for my comfort. Let’s walk the walk and I’ll talk the talk.” He rose, tilted his head back to gaze up at Jon-Tom. “You’re a prime specimen, aren’t you? Thanks for your musical aid. You won’t be insulted if I don’t ask for an encore.”

“If my music doesn’t please you, you can always go back down there and talk over your problems with your friends.” He smiled to show the koala that he was only responding in kind.

Their new acquaintance grinned back up at him. “No friends of mine down there. Heathens and barbarians, the cowardly sons of lizards. Hope they run off the end of the world. My name’s Colin. You can introduce yourselves later.” He took a step, stumbled. Mudge hastened to lend him a shoulder, but the koala waved him off.

“ ‘Predate the offer, otter, but I’ll make it on my own. You’ve risked enough on my behalf already. I’ll not be a burden to you.” He retrieved his knapsack and saber from Sorbl, shouldered the pack after sliding the saber into a special scabbard sewn to its back. Despite his short, thick arms he managed to slide the blade straight in without looking over his shoulder. Whoever this Colin was, Jon-Tom decided, he was no stranger to weaponry. If Jon-Tom had tried the same trick, he would have sliced himself from neck to coccyx.

Mudge led them back toward the campsite. “You know more about your ‘appy companions than we do,” he said to the koala. “Think they’ll try an’ follow us? The wizard ‘imself ‘ere says no.”

“Wizard, huh?” Colin gave Clothahump a perfunctory nod, polite but in no way condescending, respectful without being obsequious. “I think he’s right. Heck, it’ll take the bravest among them half a day just to decide to slow down.” Everyone laughed but Jon-Tom. He managed a weak smile.

They were halfway back to the camp when Colin called a halt. “We’ll take a minute here to make sure they don’t follow us.” He turned his back to Jon-Tom. “Upper compartment, left side. A small green bottle. Take care. They threw my kit around quite a bit, and I don’t know what’s broke and what’s intact.”