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

onto the rock and gravel. There they rolled over and stood

upright on newly formed legs. Simultaneously a section of

their smooth faces parted and a fresh voice would join

intuitively in the awful mellifluous chorus of its duplicates.

Something hard and unyielding struck Jon-Tom in his

midsection. Looking down he saw the hardwood oar Bribbens

114

THE HOUR OF THE GATE

had shoved at him. The glaring frog face moved away, to pass

additional oars to the rest of his passengers.

Then he was back at his sweep, rowing madly and yelling

at his companions. "Paddle, damn you all, paddle!"

Jon-Tom's feet finally moved. He leaned over the side and

ripped with the oar at the dark surface of the river. It was

difficult going and the leverage was bad, but he rowed until

his throat screamed with pain and a deep throbbing pounded

against his chest.

Yet that horror lurching and tumbling drunkenly along the

shore just behind them put strength in weakened arms. Talea,

Ror, Caz, and Mudge imitated his efforts. Pog had hidden

behind his wings, where he hung from the spreaders, a

shivering droplet of black membrane, flesh, and fear. Clothahump

stood and watched, watched and mumbled.

A thick gray pseudopod reached across the river, emerging

from the slate-colored moving mountain. It slapped violently

at the water only yards from the stem of the fleeing vessel.

For all its nebulous horror, the substance of the monster was

teal enough. Water drenched those on board.

Black almost-eyes glistened wetly as white grub-things

continued peeling from the pulsating bulk of the beast.

Jon-Tom frowned; someone had spoken above the reverberant

bellowing. He looked across at Clothahump.

"The Massawrath." The wizard noticed Jon-Tom staring at

him, and he repeated the name. "I have seen it in visions, my

boy, suspected it in trances, but to have located its lair... Is it

not appalling and unique? Do you not recognize any of this?"

"Recognize...? Clothahump, have you gone mad? Or

have we all? Or is it just that... that..."

He hesitated. For all its utterly alien appearance, there was

truly something almost familiar about the apparition.

Again the pseudopod slapped at them. There was a broken

groan from the boat. The tip of the massive appendage had

115

Alan Dean Foster

struck just to Clothahump's left, tearing away railing along

with a bit of the deck. The turtle had instinctively withdrawn

and rolled several yards bowward. There he stuck out arms

and legs once more and struggled to his feet while Bribbens

rowed harder than ever and quietly cursed the abomination

pursuing them.

Several partly formed white shapes had fallen from the end

of the pseudopod. They lay on deck, their uncompleted limbs

thrashing slowly. Among them was a head that had not grown

a proper body and a lower torso the chest region of which

tapered to a point.

Jon-Tom pulled in his oar and began kicking the disgusting

things over the side. The last one clutched and pulled at him.

It had arms but no legs. He was forced to touch it. Somehow

he kept down his nausea and pulled it away from his legs.

The white, rubbery flesh was cold as ice. He lifted it and

heaved it over the railing, its weak grip sliding along his arm.

It splashed astern while the Massawrath hunched its way over

boulders and stalagmites, pacing just aft of the racing ship

and gibbering mindlessly.

"If the river narrows and brings us in reach, we're fin-

ished." Talea spoke in a high, nervous voice and wrestled

with the long oar.

"What is it?" Jon-Tom wiped his hands on his pants but

the clamminess he'd picked off the flesh wouldn't dry. He

raised his oar and shoved it back into the water.

"The Massawrath," Clothahump repeated. His hurried

tumble across the deck apparently hadn't affected him. "She

is the Mother of Nightmares. This is her lair, her home."

Jon-Tom tried not to watch the loping gray slime. Bits of

congealed white, animated puddings, continued to drip from

those vast flanks, climb to their feet, and march for the water.

They remained at least twenty yards astern though they kept

up their pursuit. They did not have the muscular strength (if

116

THE HOUR Or THE GATE

they had muscles, Jon-Tom thought) to overtake the boat. An

anny of fellow singers surged and marched around the base of

the Massawrath. Some were indifferently squished beneath

the vast mass, others shoved aside into the water.

"And what are the white things?" Flor forced herself to

ask.

Clothahump peered over his glasses at her in evident

surprise. "Why child, what would you expect the Mother of

Nightmares to produce, except nightmares? I asked if you

recognized them. Having no dreams to invade they are

presently unformed, shapeless, incipient. Here in their place

of birthing they are partly solid. When they pass out and into

the minds of thinking creatures they have become thin as

wind. Their lives are brief, empty, and full of torment."

"Wha-at?" Caz swallowed, tried again. "What does the

blasted thing want with us?" The fur was as stiff on his neck

as the nails of a yogi's board.

"Nightmares need dreams to feed on," explained the

wizard. "Minds on which to fasten. What the Massawrath

Mother feeds on I can only imagine, but I am not ready to

offer myself to find out. I do not think it would be pleasant to

be nightmared to death. Mayhap she feeds on the loose minds

of the mad, carried back to her by those fragments of

nightmare offspring that survive longer than a night. It is said

the insane never awaken."

It continued to trail them, roaring and moaning. Pale things

fell like white sweat from her back and sides. Occasionally a

fresh appendage, gray and wet, would extend out toward

them. It did not again come close enough to contact the boat.

Jon-Tom remembered Talea's frantic warning: if anything

forced them nearer the Massawrath's shore they would be

better off killing each other.

Another worry was the vibration he'd been feeling for more

than a few minutes. Though it steadily intensified, it seemed

117

Alan Dean Poster

to have no connection with the pursuing Mother of Night-

mares. Soon a vast thunder filled his ears, powerful enough to

reduce even the Massawrath's moan to a faint wailing.

Still it grew in volume. Now the maddened gray hulk

struck out at the boat with dozens of pseudopods of many

lengths. They raised water from the river and dropped dozens

of slimy nightmares behind the boat.

The roaring grew louder still, until it and the vibration

underfoot merged and were one. Exhausted from wrestling

with the steering sweep, Bribbens leaned across it and tried to

catch his breath. Then he frowned, staring over the bow.

Several minutes went by and an expression of great calm

came over his face.

Jon-Tom relaxed on his own oar and panted uncontrollably.

"You... you recognize it?"

"Yes, I recognize it." The boatman looked happy, which

was encouraging. He also looked resigned, which was not.

"Every boatman knows the legends of the Sloomaz-ayor-le-

Weentli. It could only be one thing, you know.

"At least the Massawrath will not have us. This will be a

cleaner, surer death."

"What death? What are you talking about?" Talea and the

others had shipped their own oars as their pursuer fell back.