neetha Napew - The Paths Of The Perambulator

“It certainly will, if Colin’s telling the truth about his abilities.”

“No, no, not that.” The otter looked exasperated, then excited. “I mean, ‘ave a look at that junk! I can see meself now.” The otter’s mental wlieels were spinning fast. “All I’ve got to do when we gets back to civilization is trip on down to the local dump and fill me up a little leather bag with the first interestin’ crap I stumble over. Then I can go around predictin’ the future. The only thing wot puzzles me is ‘ow I never thought of it before.”

“Mudge, this isn’t a scam. This is for real.”

“Scam, reality, wot’s the difference? The whole universe is a scam, perpetrated by some supreme deity, maybe. ‘Tis one’s perception of it that matters. Anyway, if a lot o’ soft-’eaded twits take me for a rune-caster, who am I to dispute their opinions? I’d ‘urt their feelin’s by confessing, I would. Folks don’t care whether a prediction of the future is accurate or not. They just want someone to tell ‘em wot to do so they won’t ‘ave to think. Besides, I’ll only make predictions about wot I’m expert at: sex an’ money.”

“Sex and money, sex and money. What are you going to think about when you reach a ripe old age, Mudge? Assuming you ever do reach a ripe old age, about which achievement I have serious doubts.”

The otter solemnly raised one paw. “I’ll change me ways then, mate. Despite wot you might think, I’ve given that day plenty o’ thought. You’ll see. When I’m bent over an’ white-whiskered, with a streak o’ silver down me back, it’ll be different. I’ll spend all me time thinkin’ about money an’ sex.”

“I don’t know why, but that confession doesn’t surprise me.” He motioned for the otter to be quiet. Colin had finished talking to Clothahump. Now it was the koala’s turn to raise a commanding paw.

“Silence, please.”

“Cheeky bugger, I’ll give ‘im that,” Mudge whispered. Jon-Tom made shushing motions.

Colin had closed his eyes and was mumbling something under his breath. Abruptly a breeze sprang up where there had been no breeze. It whistled in from the east, swirling around them, ruffling Dormas’s mane and Jon-Tom’s long hair. The wind changed direction repeatedly, as though confused and nervous, a zephyr that had lost its way.

Still murmuring in a guttural singsong, Colin leaned forward to pick up the unimpressive fragments of stone and leather and wood in both paws. Jon-Tom noticed his impressive claws. Keeping the runes cupped in his hands, the koala continued his indecipherable chant. Clothahump was looking on and nodding slowly, though whether he recognized some of what the koala was saying or was merely offering him encouragement, Jon-Tom could not say.

No glowing points of light, no gneechees appeared. This was a different kind of magic, ancient and simple, as alien to Jon-Tom as Republican economic policy. Going by Colin’s own description, it was as much luck as magic,

The fur rose on the back of the koala’s head. The fringe lining those oversize ears seemed to quiver as if with an electric charge. Colin concluded his incantation. Then he simply held his paws out over the leather square and opened them. There was no skill involved that Jon-Tom could see. The koala simply opened his paws and let the double handful drop.

The stones and bones bounced a couple of times before coming to rest on the leather, which Jon-Tom could now see was crisscrossed with a network of fine lines that had been etched into the fabric by some kind of needle-tipped awl or knife.

Colin inhaled deeply, opened his eyes, and leaned forward to scrutinize the results of his casting. He did not take his eyes from the runes, did not even blink. Such concentration was frightening. Though he tried not to show it, it was evident that even Mudge was impressed.

Colin took another deep breath, then several short ones. Sitting back on his haunches, he put both paws on his leather-covered knees.

“What’re you trying to find out?” Dormas finally asked him.

“I wasn’t casting for anything particular. Many times the throw is uninformative. Other times it results in a pattern you can’t trust. I hope that’s the case with this one.”

“Why?” Jon-Tom was suddenly concerned. “What does it say?”

There was a genuine sadness in the koala’s eyes. They shifted from Jon-Tom to the otter standing next to him. “My good friend Mudge, if this pattern is accurate, you have less than thirty seconds to live.”

IX

There was dead silence from the little cluster of onlookers. Mudge could only gape at the stranger in their midst. How did one react to a pronouncement like that? Finally the otter tried to smile. He worked at it as hard as he could, but for once that ready grin failed to materialize.

“You’re tryin’ to scare me, you sorry sod. You’re tryin’ to scare all of us so we won’t find you out for the rhummy-mugger you are. Well, you can’t fool me. I don’t believe in your bag o’ bones for a minute, I don’t.” He spat at the ground, barely missing the leather and its mute contents. Looking around warily, he began backing away from the silent, sorrowful Colin.

“I wish it might’ve beertOtherwise,” the koala apologized. “There’s no predicting what the runes will say.”

“Say? That pile o’ shit can’t say boo. ‘Tis a lot o’ garbage, Jon-Tom.” Jon-Tom was staring wordlessly at his friend. “Wot ‘e says as well as wot ‘e’s tossin’ around. Just garbage. Tell me ‘tis garbage, Your Wizardship.”

Clothahump watched the retreating otter with a maddeningly clinical eye, then spoke to the caster. “By what means?”

Colin looked back at the motionless runes. “Doesn’t say, old one.”

“ ‘Tis garbage, it is!” The otter’s voice rose uncontrollably. “Garbage and a bloody lie!” He was glancing around nervously, as though he expected to be attacked at any moment. “Fakery and trickery, I ought to know. The fat bear’s a con artist. There’s more snow in ‘is spiel than crowns those mountains up ahead. Oh, you’re slick, you* bloated fuzzball” —he sneered at Colin—”real slick. But you can’t fool old Mudge. No one can predict the future. No one! And if anyone could, they wouldn’t do it by dumpin’ a pawful o’ junk on the ground an’ starin’ at it while belching!” He rapped his fist against his chest.

“I’m as ‘ealthy as ever me was, surrounded by me good friends, an’ there’s nothin’ in the world I’m afraid of, nothin’ that can touch me, nothin’ that can—”

He was interrupted by a loud cracking sound. Jon-Tom jumped involuntarily while Dormas backed up fast. Clothahump and Colin did not move. Only Sorbl’s marvelous eyes and reflexes, even though slightly numbed by his daily intake of alcohol, enabled him to react fast enough to shout a warning. He gestured with a wing and yelled, “Look out!”

Mudge whirled, eyes wide. Very few creatures can move as fast as an otter. Even so, he wasn’t fast enough.

The huge, rotten branch fell from near the top of the big fir he’d backed beneath, striking him on the back of the head and landing with a tremendous crash. Broken sub-branches, leaves, and dead twigs went flying in all directions. The fall was loud enough to echo several times off the surrounding hillsides. Everyone rushed toward the fallen otter except Clothahump. The wizard stood close by the rune-caster’s tools and looked on curiously.

“Most interesting,” he murmured to no one in particular.

“I was half inclined to agree with the otter’s charges of fakery, having known a multitude of witches and warlocks, sorcerers and spellsingers, and so-called casters but never one who actually could predict the future.”