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

"We need something, a certain medicine, that can only be

purchased in that store."

The oldster grunted, though it came out as more of a

rusty squeak. "Well, that's thy business."

"Please, we've come a long way. From across the

Glittergeist. We need directions. Specific directions."

Another grunt-squeak. "Long way to come to make

fools of thyselves."

"It's not for us. A friend of mine, a teacher and a great

wizard, is very sick and badly needs this medicine. If you

can tell us how to get to Crancularn, we'll pay you,

somehow."

The oldster shook his head sadly. "I'd tell thee if I

could, boy, but I can't help you. I don't know where

Crancularn is." Jon-Tom slumped. "But there's them that

do. Only, I wouldn't be the one to go asking them."

"Let us worry about that," said Jon-Tom eagerly. "Who

are they?"

"Why, the enchanted ones, of course. Who else?"

"Enchanted ones?"

"Aye, the little people of the magic. The fairy folk. You

know."

Folly's eyes were wide with childlike wonder. "When I

was a little girl, I used to hear stories of the fairy folk. My

mother used to tell me." She went very quiet and Jon-Tom

tried to rush the conversation to take her thoughts off more

recent memories.

"Where would we find these fairy folk?" The thought

of meeting real honest-to-Tinker Bell fairies was enough to

motivate him. Getting directions to Crancularn would be a

bonus.

"I wouldn't advise anyone to risk such an encounter,

sonny, but I can see that thee art determined." He indicat-

ed the steep slope behind them. "They hide in the wet

ravines and steep canyons of these hills, keeping to them-

selves. Don't much care for normal folk such as us. But

thee art human, and it is said that they take human form.

Perhaps thee will have better luck than most. Seek the

places where the water runs deep and clear and the rocks

are colored so dark they are almost black, where the moss

grows thick above the creeks and..."

" 'Ere now, grandpa." Mudge spoke from his rocky seat

out in the stream. "This 'ere moss, it don't 'ave^no mental

problems now, do it?"

The chipmunk frowned at him. "How could mere moss

have mental problems?"

Mudge relaxed. Their near-disastrous experience in the

Muddletup Moors was still fresh in his mind. "Never mind."

The chipmunk gave him an odd look, turned back to

Jon-Tom. "Those are the places where thee might encoun-

ter the fairy folk. If thee must seek them out."

"It seems we've no choice." Rising, Jon-Tom turned to

inspect the tree-fringed hillside.

The elderly chipmunk resumed his walk. "I wish thee

luck, then. I wish thee luck. Thee will need it to locate the

enchanted ones, and thee will need it even more if thee

do."

The ridge above gave way to a heavily wooded slope on

the far side that grew progressively steeper. Soon they

were fighting to maintain their balance as they slipped and

slid down the dangerous grade.

At least, Jon-Tom and Roseroar were. With their inher-

ent agility and lower centers of gravity, Jalwar and Mudge

had no difficulty at all with the awkward descent, and

Folly proved lithe as a gibbon.

A stream ran along the bottom of the narrow gorge. It

was broader than the one they'd left behind, but not deep

enough to qualify as a river. Moss and many kinds of ferns

184

Alan Dean Foster

THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

185

clung to logs and boulders. Insects hummed in the cool,

damp air while dark granite and schist soaked up the rays

of the sun.

They spent most of the day searching along the creek

before deciding to move on. An insurmountable waterfall

forced them to climb up the far side of the gorge. They

topped the next ridge, climbed down still another slope

where they camped for the night.

By the afternoon of the following day they were explor-

ing their fourth such canyon. Jon-Ton was beginning to

think that the fairy folk were a myth invented by an

especially garulous old rodent to amuse himself at the

expense of some gullible travelers.

They were finishing up a late meal when Mudge suddenly

erupted from his seat on a thick patch of buttery yellow

flowers. His bark of surprised pain echoed down the creek.

Everyone jumped. Roseroar automatically reached for

her swords. Folly crouched ready to run while Jalwar's fur

bristled on his neck. Jon-Tom, who was more familiar

with the otter's overreactions, left his staff alone.

"What the hell bit you?"

Mudge was trying to inspect his backside. "SometmV

sure as 'ell did. 'Ere, Folly, be a good girl and see if I'm

bleedin'?" He turned to her and bent slightly.

She examined the area dominated by the short, stubby

tail and protected by leather shorts. "I don't see anything."

" 'Ave a close look."

"You fuzzy pervert." She gave him a look of disgust as

she moved away.

"No, really. Not that I deny the accusation, luv, but

somethin' took a chunk out o' me backside for sure,"

"Liar! What would I do with a chunk of you?"

The voice was high but firm and came from the vicinity

of the flowerbed. Jon-Tom crawled over for a close look,

searching for the source of the denial.

Tiny hands parted the stalks, which were as yellow as

the thick-petaled flowers, and he found himself staring at

something small, winged, feminine, and drastically

overweight.

"I'll be damned," he murmured. "A fat fairy."

"Watch your mouth, buster," she said as she sort of

lumbered out lightly until she was standing on a broken

log. The log was brown with red longitudinal stripes

running through the bark. "I know I've got a small

personal problem, and I don't need some big-mouthed

human reminding me of the fact."

"Sorry." Jon-Tom tried to sound contrite. "You are a

fairy, aren't you? One of the enchanted folk?"

"Nah," she snapped back, "I'm a stevedore from

Snarken."

Jon-Tom studied her closely. Her clothing resembled

wisps of spun gossamer lavender candy. A miniature tiara

gleamed on her head. Long hair trailed below her waist.

The tiara had been knocked askew and covered one eye.

She grunted as she struggled to straighten it. In her right

hand she clutched a tiny gold wand. Her wings were

shards of cellophane mottled with thin red stripes.

"We were told," Folly said breathlessly, "that you

could help us."

"Now, why would I want to do that? We've got enough

problems of our own." She stared at Jon-Tom. "That's a

nice duar. You a musician, bright boy?"

"'e's a spellsinger, and a right powerful one, too,"

Mudge informed her. "Come all the way from across the

Glittergeist to fetch back medicine for a sick sorcerer."

"He's a right powerful fool," she snapped. She sat

down heavily on the log, her legs spread wide in a most

casual and unladylike manner. Jon-Tom estimated her to

be about four inches high and almost as wide.

"I'm called Jon-Tom." He introduced his companions.

An uneasy silence ensued and he finally asked, "What's

your name?"

"None of your business."

"Come on," he said coaxingly. "Whether you help us

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Alan Dean Foster

or not is up to you, but can't we at least be polite to one

another?"

"What's this? A polite human? That doesn't make any

sense, bald-body." She shrugged. "What the hell. My

name's Grelgen. Want to make something of it?"