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

Dry and dressed, the passengers were soon traveling once

more eastward. The scenery had improved greatly. Jon-Tom

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Alan Dean Foster

hoped the cavern would not shrink around them and force

them again down to the dull surface of the understream.

He needn't have worried. Instead of compacting, the cav-

ern grew larger. It seemed endless, stretching vast and fluo-

rescent ahead of them.

Phosphorescent growths made the river an artist's palette,

oils of many colors all run together and anarchically brilliant.

Gigantic stalactites drooped like teeth from the distant ceil-

ing. Some were far larger than the boat. They drifted past

huge panels of flowstone, frozen rivers of stained calcite.

Helictites curled and twisted from the walls, twitching at

gravity like so many crystalline whiskers. Fungi flashed from

diem all.

On both sides they could see passages branching from the

main cavern. Jon-Tom had a powerful urge to grab a lamp

and do some casual spelunking. But Clothahump reminded hiru

there would be ample exploring to do without deviating frori

their course. So long as the river continued to run eastward

they would keep to the boat.

The size and magnificence of the cavern kept him fror.i

thinking about the composition of the Sloomaz-ayor-le-Weenti:

It was disconcerting to sail along a river that flowed not o.-

rock or sand but on air.

"How do you know it even has a solid bottom?" Plor onc,-

asked their boatman. "Maybe it's a triple—or quadruple--

river?"

Bribbens rested in his seat at the stem, one arm draped

protectively across the steering oar.

"Because I've been in and out of it many times, lady.

Anyway, no matter where you are on the river the anchors

always bite into the second bottom."

Here and there the warm glow of the bioluminescents

would fade and then vanish. At such times they had to rely on

106

THE HOUR OF THE GATE

me lamps for light until they reached another fluorescent

section.

It didn't bother Pog. He'd finally recovered from his

lengthy grumpiness. To him the darkness was natural, and he

enjoyed the stretches of no-light. They could hear him swooping

and darting beyond the range of the boat's lamps, playing

dodgem with the cave formations. Sometimes he'd leave the

boat for long stretches of time, much to Clothahump's dis-

pleasure and concern, only to have his internal sonar unerringly

bring him back to the ship many hours later.

"Beautiful," Jon-Tom was murmuring as he watched the

glowing shapes drift past. "It's absolutely beautiful."

Talea stood next to him and eyed the dark openings that

branched off from the main cavern. Sometimes these gaping

holes would come right down to the river's edge.

"Funny idea of beauty you have, Jon-Tom. I don't like it at

all."

"Humans got no appreciation of caves," said Pog with a

snort, weaving in the air above them. "Dis all wasted on ya

except da spellsinger dere, an' dat's da truth!"

"Can I help it if I prefer light to dark, freedom to

confinement?" she countered.

"Amen," said Flor heartily.

For both women the initial loveliness of the formations had

been surrendered to the superstitious dread most people hold

of deep, enclosed places. Jon-Tom was the only one with a

real interest in caves, and so he was somewhat immune to

such fears. To him the immense shapes, laid down patiently

over the ages by dripping water and dissolved limestone,

were as exquisite as anything the world of daylight had to

offer.

Flor and Talea were not alone in their nervousness, however.

"I think I liked it better inside the rivers," Mudge said one

morning. "Leastwise there a chaploiew where 'e was, wot?"

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Alan Dean Foster

He indicated the darkness of a large, unilluminated sic

passage with a sweep of one furry arm. "Don't care much tc

this place atall. I ain't ready t' be buried just yet."

"Superstition," Clothahump muttered. "The bane (

civilization."

As for their boatman, he remained as calm as if he'd bee

sailing familiar waters.

"Does this place have a name?" Jon-Tom asked him

watching a clump of bright azure mushrooms on the shore,

"Only in legend." Bribbens looked away for a moment.

An impossibly long tongue flicked out and snared something

which Jon-Tom saw only as a ghost of glittering, transparent

wings and body.

The frog smacked his lips appraisingly. "No color, but the

flavor isn't bad." He nodded at the cavern. "In stories and

legends of the riverfolk this is known as the Earth's Throat.''

"And where does it go?" Bor asked him.

Bribbens shrugged. "Who knows? Your hard-shelled men

tor believes it to travel much of the way through the mow

tains. Perhaps he's right. I prefer to think we'll come ou

there instead of, say, the earth's belly."

"That doesn't sound very nice." Nearby Talea fingered the

haft of her knife as though she could intimidate the surrounding

darkness with it.

Or whatever else might be out there....

108

VII

They were beginning to think they might complete the

passage through the Teeth (or at least to the end of the river)

without mishap. Long days of idle drifting, the boat carried

smoothly by the current, had lulled the fears they'd acquired

on the Swordsward.

Pog, his hearing more acute than anyone else's, was first to

note the noise.

"Off key," he explained in response to their queries, "but

it's definitely somebody's idea of song. More than one of

whatever it is, too."

"I'm sure of it." Caz's long ears were cocked alertly

toward the northern shore. They twitched in counterpoint to

his busy nose.

It was several minutes more before the humans could hear

the subject of their companion's intense listening. It was a

rhythmic rising and falling, light and ethereal as an all-female

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Alan Dean Foster

choir might produce. Definitely music, but nothing recogniz-

able as words.

It was occasionally interrupted by a few moments of vivace

modulation that sounded like laughter. Jon-Tom could appre-

ciate the peculiar melodies, but he didn't care for the laughter-

chords one bit.

Bribbens interrupted their listening, his tone quiet as al-

ways but unusually urgent. "Tiller's not answering properly."

Indeed, the boat was drifting steadily toward the north

shore. There was a gravel beach and rocks: not much of a

landing place. Muscles strained beneath the boatman's slick

skin as he fought the steering, but the boat continued to

incline landward.

Soon they were bumping against the first rocks. These

obstacles poked damp dark heads out of the water around the

boat.

Flor stumbled away from the railing on the opposite side

and screamed. Jon-Tom rushed to join her. He stared over the

side and recoiled instinctively.

Dozens of shapes filled the water. They had their hands on

the side of the boat and were methodically pushing at it evec

though it was already half grounded on the rocky bottom.

"Steady now," said Talea wamingly. She stood at the bow,

her knife and sword naked in the glow-light, and pointed tc

me land.

A great number of creatures were marching toward the

boat. They were identical to the persistent pushers in the

water. All were approximately five feet tall and thin to the

point of emaciation. They were faintly human, memories of