Foster, Dean - Spellsinger 02 - The Hour of the Gate

lilting whistle drifted out from the enclosed wagon. Small

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THE HOUR OF THE GATE

things rose cautiously to study the onward trundling wooden

beast before dropping down into grass or groundholes.

Jon-Tom parted the canvas rain shield and moved to sit

down on the driver's seat next to Flor. She held the reins

easily in one hand, as though bom to the task, and glanced

over at him. Her free hand rested across her thighs. Her long

black hair was a darker bit of shadow, like a piece of broken

black plate glass, against the night. Her eyes were luminous

and huge.

He looked away from their curious stare and down at his

hands. They twisted and moved uncomfortably in his lap, as

though trying to find a place to hide; little five-footed crea-

tures he could not cage.

"I think we have a problem."

"Only one?" She grinned at him, barely paying attention

to the reins now. Without being told, the lizards would

continue to plod onward on their present course.

"But that's what life's all about, isn't it? Solving a series

of problems? When they're as varied and challenging as

these," and she flicked long nails in the air, a brief gesture

mat casually encompassed two worlds and a shift in dimen-

sion, "why, that adds to the spice of it."

"That's not the kind of problem I'm talking about, Flor.

This one is personal."

She looked concerned. "Anything I can do to help?"

"Possibly." He looked up at her. "I think I'm in love with

you. I think I've always been in love with you. I..."

"That's enough," she told him, raising a restraining hand

and speaking gently but firmly. "In the first place, you can't

have always been in love with me because you haven't known

me for always. Metaphysics aside, Jon-Tom, I don't think

you've known me long enough.

"In the second place, I don't think you're really in love

with me. I think you're in love with the image of me you've

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seen and added to in your imagination, es verdad, amigo^ To

be erode about it, you're in love with my looks, my body

Don't think I hold it against you. It's not your fault. Your

desires and wants arc a product of your environment."

This was not going the way he'd hoped, he mused confusedly.

"Don't be so sure that you know all about me either, Flor."

"I'm not." She was not offended by his tone. "I mean,

how have you 'seen' me, Jon-Tom? How have you 'known'

me? Short skirt, tight sweater, always the perfect smile,

perfectly groomed, long hair flouncing and pom-poms jounc-

ing, isn't that about it?"

"Don't patronize me."

"I'm not patronizing you, dammit! Use your head, hom-

bre. I may look like a pinup, but I don't think like one. You

can't be in love with me because you don't know me."

"'Ere now, wot the 'ell are you two fightin' about?"

Mudge stuck his furry face out from behind the canvas. " 'T!S

too bloomin' nice a night for such witterin'."

"Back out, Mudge," said Jon-Tom curdy at the interrup-

tion. "This is none of your business."

"Oh, now let's not get our bowels in an uproar, mate. Suit

yourself." With a last glance at them both, he obligingly

retreated inside.

"I won't deny that I find you physically attractive, Flor."

"Of course you do. You wouldn't be normal if you

didn't." She stared out across the endless dark plain, kissed

with orange by the rising moon. "Every man has, ever since

I was twelve years old. I've been through this before." She

looked back at him.

"The point is you don't know me, the real Hores Quintera.

So you can't be in love with her. I'm flattered, but if we're

going to have any kind of chance at a real relationship, we'd

best start fresh, here and now. Without any preconceived

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THE HOUK Of THE QATK

notions about what I'm like, what you'd like me to be like, or

what I represent to you. ComprendeV

"Bor, don't you think I've had a look at the real you these

past weeks?" Try as he might, he couldn't help sounding

defensive.

"Sure you have, but that's hardly long enough. And you

can't be certain that's the real me, either. Maybe it's only

another facet of my real personality, whose aspects are still

changing."

"Wait a minute," he said hopefully. "You said, 'chance at

a real relationship.' Does that mean you think we have a

chance for one?"

"I've no idea." She eyed him appraisingly. "You're an

interesting man, Jon-Tom. The fact that you can work magic

here with your music is fascinating to me. I couldn't do it.

But I don't know you any better than you know me. So why

don't we start clean, huh? Pretend I'm just another girl

you've just met. Let's call this our first date." She nodded

skyward. "The moon's right for it."

"Kind of tough to do," he replied, "after you've just

poured out a deeply felt confession of love. You took that

apart like a professor dissecting a tadpole."

"I'm sorry, Jon-Tom." She shrugged. "That's part of the

way I am. Part of the real me, as much as the pom-poms or

my love of the adventure of this world. You have to leam to

accept them all, not just the ones you like." She tried to

sound encouraging. "If it's any consolation, while I may not

love you, I do like you."

"That's not much."

"Why don't you get rid of that hurt puppy-dog look, too,"

she suggested. "It won't do you any good. Come on, now.

Cheer up! You've let out what you had to let out, and I

haven't rebuffed you completely." She extended an open

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Alan Dean Foster

hand. "Buenos noches, Jon-Tom. I'm Plores Maria Quintera.

Como 'stasT'

He looked silently at her, then down at the proferred palm.

He took it with a resigned sigh. "Jon-Tom.. .Jon Meriweather.

Pleased to meet you."

After that, they got along a little more easily. The punctur-

ing of Jon-Tom's romantic balloon released tension along

with hopes....

70

v

It was a very ordinary-looking river, Jon-Tom thought.

Willow and cypress and live oak clustered thirstily along its

sloping banks. Small scaly amphibians played in thick under-

brush. Reeds claimed the quiet places of the slow-moving

eddies.

The bank on the far side was equally well fringed with

vegetation. From time to time they encountered groups of

animals and humans occupied in various everyday tasks on

the banks. They would be fishing, or washing clothes, or

simply watching the sun do the work of carrying forth the

daytime.

The wagon turned eastward along the southern shore of the

Sloomaz-ayor-le-WeentIi, heading toward the growing massif

of the mountains and passing word of the coming invasion to

any wannlander who would listen. But the River of Twos was

a long way from Polastrindu, and the Jo-Troom Gate and the

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depredations of the Plated Folk only components of legend to

the river dwellers.

All agreed with the travelers on one matter, however: the

problem of trying to pass downstream and through the Teeth.

"Eh?" said one wizened old otter in response to their

query, "ye want to go where?" In contrast to Mudge the

oldster's fur was streaky-white. So were his facial whiskers.

Arthritis bent him in the middle and gnarled his hands and

feet.

"Ye'll never make it. Ye won't make it past the entrance

and if ye do, ye'll not find yer way through the rock. Too

many have tried and none have ever come back."