Foster, Dean - Spellsinger 03 - The Day of the Dissonance

staggered backward.

"Blister me for a brown vole if you're not. Where'd you

find the hootch, guv'nor?"

"What hoosh?" Jon-Tom replied thickly. "I didn't..."

The floor almost went out from under him. "Say, whoosh

driving thish bush?"

A disgusted Mudge stepped back. "Can't abide anyone

who can't 'old 'is booze."

92

Alan Dean Foster

"Leave him fo now," said Roseroar. "We'll have to

handle this ourselves." They turned to leave.

"Hey, wait!" Jon-Tom yelled. He took a step forward,

and the boat, sly and tricky craft that it was, deliberately

yanked the floor out from under him. He slammed into the

door, hung on for dear life.

Mudge was right, he realized through the glassy haze

that had formed over his eyeballs. I am drunk. Try as he

might, he couldn't remember imbibing anything stronger

than orange juice at supper. After reprising a couple of

choruses of "Sloop John #." to make sure the boat didn't

dematerialize out from beneath them in the middle of the

night, he'd gone to bed. Jalwar was awake and alert.

Everyone was except him.

Suddenly he found himself in desperate need of a

porthole, barely located one in time to stick his face out

and throw his guts all over the equally upset ocean. When

he Finally finished puking he was soaking wet from the

spray. He felt a little less queasy but not any soberer.

Somehow he managed to slam the porthole shut and

refasten it. He staggered toward the gangway, pulled him-

self toward the deck.

Wind hit him hard the instant he stepped out on the teak

planking, and rain filled his vision. Roseroar was holding

the wheel steady with grim determination, but Mudge and

Jalwar were having a terrible time trying to wrestle the

mainsail down.

"Hurry it up!" the tigress roared, her voice barely

audible above the storm, "or we'll lose it fo sure!"

"I don't care if we do," Jon-Tom moaned, putting both

hands to the sides of his head, "just let's not shout about

it, shall we?"

1 'Tell it to the sky, spellsinger,'' pleaded Jalwar.

"Yeah, use your magic, mate," added Mudge. "Turn

this bloomin' weather back to normal!" Jon-Tom noticed

that both of them were soaked. "Get rid of this bloody

bedamned storm!"

THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

93

"Anything, anything," he told them, "if you'll just stop

shouting." He staggered and nearly went careening over-

board, just managed to save himself by grabbing on to a

stay. "I don't unnershtand. It wash so calm when I went to

bed."

"Well 'tis not calm now, mate," snapped Mudge, wres-

tling with the heavy, wet sail.

"Ah've nevah seen a storm like this come up so quick-

ly." Roseroar continued fighting with the wheel.

"The words," Jalwar muttered. "The words of the

spellsinging! Don't you remember?" He looked straight at

Jon-Tom. "Don't you remember the words?"

"But ish just the chorush," Jon-Tom groaned. "Jusht

the chorush." He mumbled them again. " 'Thish ish the

worsht trip, I've ever been on.' I didn't mean that part of

the shong."

The ferret was nodding. "So you sang. The spirits

cannot distinguish between what you sing and mean and

what you sing and do not mean. They have a way of taking

everything literally."

"But ish not the worsht trip I've ever been on!"

Jon-Tom stood away from the rail on rubbery legs and

screamed his protest at the skies that threatened to swamp

them. "Ish not\"

The skies paid him no heed.

For hours they battled the winds. Twice they were in

danger of being swamped. They were saved only by the

unmagical efforts of the sloop's pump. Somehow Jon-Tom

got it started, though the effort made him upchuck all over

the engine room. That wouldn't happen again, though. His

stomach was empty.

If only it would feel empty.

Soon after they pumped out the second holdful of water,

the storm began to abate. An hour later the mountainous

seas started to subside. And still there was no real relief,

because thunder and lightning gave way to a thick,

impenetrable fog.

94

Alan Dean Poster

Mudge was leaning on the rail, grumbling. "We'd

better not be near any land, mates." He glanced upward.

A faint glow suffused the upper reaches of the fog bank,

which had not thinned in the slightest. "I know you're up

there, you great big ugly yellow bastard! Why don't you

bum this driftin' piss off so we can see to be on our way!"

"The words of the song," Ja!war murmured. Mudge

snarled at him.

"And you pack in it, guv'nor, or I'll do it for you."

It was morning. Somewhere the sun was up there,

probably laughing at them. The compass still showed the

way, but the wind had vanished with the storm, and none

of Jon-Tom's feeble coaxing could induce the shiny new

diesel engine to perform.

The restored sail hung limp against the mast. The sloop

was floating through glassy, smooth, shallow water. A

sandy bottom occasionally rose dangerously close to the

keel, only to fall away again into pale blue depths each

time it looked like they were about to ground. Roseroar

steered as best she could, and with an otter and a ferret

aboard there was at least no shortage of sharp eyesight.

But as the day wore on and the fog clung tenaciously to

them, it began to look as if Jon-Tom's song was to prove

their simultaneous salvation and doom. The wind remained

conspicuous by its absence. Sooner or later the shallows

would close in around them and they would find them-

selves marooned forever in the midst of a strange sea.

The tension was taking its toll on everyone, even Roseroar.

Their spellsinger, who had conjured up this wonderful

craft, was of no use to anyone, least of all himself.

Thankfully he no longer threw up. Yet despite his unarguable

abstinence from any kind of drink, he remained falling-

down drunk. Smashed. Potted.

If anything, his condition had worsened. He strolled

about the deck muttering songs so incomprehensible and

slurred none of his companions could decipher them.

Just as a precaution, Mudge had sequestered Jon-Tom's

THE DAY OF THK DISSONANCE

95

duar in a safe place. He'd gotten them into this situation

while sober. It was terrifying to contemplate what might

happen if he started spellsinging while drunk.

"We have one chance," Jalwar finally declared.

"Wot's that, guv'nor?" Mudge sat on the port side of

the bow, keeping his eyes on the threatening shallows.

"To turn around. We aren't that far yet from the beach

where this unfortunate turn of events began. We can return

there, land, or use this craft, provided the wind will return,

to take us back to the mouth of the Tailaroam and

civilization."

"I'm tempted, guv, but 'e'll never stand for it." He

nodded back to where Jon-Tom lay sprawled on his back

on the deck, alternately laughing and hiccuping at the fog.

"How can he object to stop us?" wondered Jalwar. "He

has the gift, but no control over it."

"That may be, guv. I'm sure as 'ell no expert on

spellsingin', but this I do know. 'E's me friend, and I

promised 'im that I'd see 'im through this journey to its

end, no matter wot 'appens."

Besides which, the otter reminded himself, if they

returned without the medicine, there would be no rich

reward from a grateful Clothahump. Mudge had endured

too much already to throw that promise away now.