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

weather. I am a graduate law student from UCLA. The

University of California at Los Angeles. He repeated this

information slowly to the driver of the boat.

"Nice to meet you," said MacReady.

"But you, you, you, where are you? Where are you

from?" Jon-Tom was aware he was half crying, but he

couldn't stop himself. His desperation overwhelmed any

suggestion of self-control.

The song, the song, that seemingly innocuous song so

full of unforeseen consequences. First the boat, then the

storm and his drunkenness, and now ... where in the song

had the sloop John B. been going?

The stockbroker from Manhattan pointed to his right.

"Just out for the afternoon from the Nassau Club Med.

You know, man. The Bahamas? You lost out of Miami or

what?" He jiggled the chain of polyethelene beads that

hung from his neck.

"Wanna come back in with us?"

"It can't be," Jon-Tom whispered dazedly. "It can't be

this easy." The song he'd repeated over and over, what

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was the phrasing? ' 'Around Nassau Town we did roam... I

wanna go home, I wanna go home... this is the worst

trip, I've ever been on."

"7 wanna go home," Jon-Tom sang in his mind. "Around

Nassau Town. Yes... yes, we'll follow you back! We'll

follow you back." He clung to the rail for dear life, his

eyes locked on the big Evenrude rumbling at the stern of

the ski boat.

"You coming over here or you just going to follow us

in?"

"We'll follow you," Jon-Tom mumbled. "We'll fol-

low." He turned to the helm. "Roseroar, put on all

sail... no, wait." It was still windless. "The engine. I'll

get that engine started and we'll follow them in!" He took

a wild step toward the hatchway, felt himself going back-

ward over the rail, tumbling toward a waiting pane of glass

that wasn't there.

An immense paw had hold of him, was pulling him

back on deck. "Watch yourself, sugah," Roseroar told

him quietly. She'd cleared the distance to him from her

position at the wheel in one leap.

Now she stared across the water. "Who are these

strange folk? Ah declare, ah can't make top no bottom of

their words."

"Tell them," Jon-Tom moaned weakly toward the ski

boat, "tell them who you are, tell them where we are!"

But Charles MacReady, stockbroker on vacation, seven

days, six nights, $950 all-inclusive from LaGuardia, not

counting the fact that he expected to get laid tonight, did

not reply. He was staring at the boat where seven feet of

white tigress dressed in leather and brass armor stood on

hind legs staring back at him.

Giggling rose from the floorboards in the front of

the boat. MacReady's girlfriend had progressed from an

intimate examination of her nails to her toes, which she

was regarding now with a Buddha-like glassy stare.

MacReady dazedly flipped the butt of the sansemilla

THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

101

stick over the side as though it had been laced with

cyanide and said clearly, "Holy shit." Then he sat down

hard in the driver's seat and fired up the big outboard.

"No wait," Jon-Tom screamed, "wait!" He tried to

dive over the side, and it took all of Roseroar's consider-

able strength to prevent him from drowning himself. In his

current state he couldn't float, much less swim.

"Easy there, Jon-Tom. What's gotten into y'all?"

He wrenched away from her, tore down the hatchway

into the hold, and fumbled with the diesel. It took three

tries but this time it started up. Then he was running,

crawling back up the stairs and flying for the steering

wheel console. The compass rocked. He stabbed a button.

A gargling came from underneath the ship, hesitated, died.

He jabbed the button again. This time the sound was a

whir, whir.

Mudge raced back from the bow. "Wot the bloody 'ell

is goin' on back 'ere?"

Roseroar stood aside, guarding the railing, and eyed the

otter uncertainly. "There ah people in a boat. We must be

neah some land."

"I 'card. That's bloody marvelous. They goin' to lead

us in?"

"I think they're frightened of something," Roseroar

told him.

Jon-Tom was crying, crying and jabbing away at the

starter. "You don't understand, you don't understand!"

The sound of the ski boat's outboard was fading with

distance. Still the engine refused to turn over.

Then there was a deep growl. Roseroar jumped and

grabbed the rail as the boat began to move.

"Where are they?" Jon-Tom cried, trying to steer and

search the fog at the same time. "Which way did they

go?"

"I do not know, Jon-Tom," said Jalwar helplessly. "I

did not see." He pointed uncertainly into the fog off the

bow. "That way, I think."

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Jon-Tom increased their speed and the diesel responded

efficiently. They couldn't be far from the town of Nassau.

The foursome from New York had been out for the

afternoon only. Hadn't the stockbroker said so? Besides,

they wore only swim suits and carried little in the way of

supplies. Surely he was near enough to hit the island! And

from Nassau it would be a short flight to the Florida coast.

To home, to Miami, Disneyworld, hotels, and soap operas

on TV in the afternoon. Images shoved purposefully into

the back of his mind sprang back to the fore: home.

He was home.

So crazed was he with hope and joy that he didn't think

what the reaction would be to his arriving in Nassau with

the likes of Mudge and Jalwar and Roseroar in tow. But

none of that mattered. None.

Unintentionally and quite without intending to do so,

he'd spellsung himself home.

VII

He clung desperately to that thought as day gave way to

night. Still no sign of Nassau or any of the Bahamas. No

hint of pleasure boats plying the placid Caribbean. No

lights on shore to guide them in. Only the ever-present fog

and an occasional glimpse of a half-moon glittering on

high, keeping a watchful silver eye on his waning hopes.

He was still at the wheel the next morning. The fog had

fled from the sky only to settle heavily inside his heart.

You could see for miles in every direction. None yielded a

glimpse of a coconut palm, a low-lying islet, or the warm

glass-and-steel face of a Hilton Hotel. Only when the

diesel finally sputtered to a halt, out of fuel, did he sit

away from the helm, exhausted.

Worst of all, he was sober. Desperation and despair had

driven the spellsong-induced drunkenness from his body. It

was sour irony: he had regained the use of his senses when

he no longer had need of them.

Roseroar assumed the wheel again, said nothing. With

the disappearance of the fog had come the return of the

wind. The sails filled.

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"Wheah shall I set course for, Ion-Tom?" she asked

gently. He didn't reply, stared blankly over the side.

Mudge watched him closely. "Snarken, luv. You know

the way." Roseroar nodded, swung the wheel over.

"What's wrong with him?"

Mudge replied thoughtfully. " 'E believed for a few

minutes last night 'e might 'ave been 'ome, back in 'is

own world. Now, me, I don't believe we went from one

world to another that simple, even if that was a peculiar

boat full of mighty odd-lookin' 'umans. The birds were

sharp enough lookin', though. I'll give 'em that."

Roseroar gave him a look of distaste. " Y' all are disgustin'.

Yo friend is heartsick and all yo can thank of, yo scummy