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

was quite short, and long, fine hair of the same shade grew

on the heads of male and female alike. Hordes of them started

emerging from tiny doors and cubbyholes. Most resumed

working on the building. Acres of scaffolding bristled on

battlements and turrets and towers. One group of several

dozen were installing a massive window all of a yard high.

Bribbens eased the boat in toward shore. At closer range

they could make out thousands of golden sculptures adorning

the building, gargoyles and worm-sized snakes and things

only half realized because they originated in other dimen-

sions, from a different biological geometry. Unlike the gneechees,

these wonderful creations could be viewed, if not wholly

perceived.

As the boat drifted still closer the thousands of tiny

workers began milling uncomfortably, clustering close by

doorways and other openings. Ion-Tom hailed them from his

position at the bow, trying to assuage their worries.

"We mean you no harm," he called gently. "We're only

passing through your lands and admire your incredible build-

ing. What's it for?"

From the crest of a water-caressed rock a fur-covered

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THE HOUR OF THE GATE

nymph all of three and a half inches tall shouted back at him.

He had to strain to understand the tiny lady.

"It is the Building," she told him matter-of-factly, as

though that should be explanation enough to satisfy anyone.

"Yes," and he lowered his voice still further when he saw

that his normal tone was painfully loud to her, "but what is

the building for?"

"It is the Building," the sprite reiterated. "We call it

'Heart-of-the-World.' Does it not shine brightly?"

"Very brightly," Talea said appreciatively. "It's very beau-

tiful. But what is it for?"

The down-clad waif laughed delicately. "We are not sure.

We have always worked on the Building. We always will

work on the Building. What else is there to -life but the

Building?"

"You say you call it 'Heart-of-the-World.'" Jon-Tom stud-

ied the radiant walls and glistening spires. At first he thought

it had been made of real gold, then stone covered with gilt

paint. Now he wasn't sure. It might be metal of another kind,

or plastic, or ceramic, or some unimaginable material he

knew nothing of.

"Perhaps it is the very heart of the world itself," the little

lady offered in suggestion. She smiled joyfully, showing

perfect minuscule teeth. "We do not know. It beats with light

as a heart does. If our work were to be stopped, perhaps the

light would go out of the world."

Jon-Tom considered saying more but found reason and

reality at odds with one another, mixed up like a dog and a

cat chasing each other around a pole, getting nowhere. He

looked helplessly to Clothahump for an explanation. So did

his companions.

"Who can say?" The wizard shrugged. "If it is truly the

architecture of the heart of the world, then at least we can tell

others that the world is well and truly fashioned."

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Alan Dean Foster

"Thank you, sir." The sprite leaped nimbly to another rock

further upstream to keep pace with them. "We do our best.

We have become very adept at adding to and maintaining the

Building."

"Make sure," Jon-Tom called to her, "that its glow never

goes out!" They were passing into a, narrower section of the

river cavern, leaving the unnamed little folk and their enig-

matic, immense construct behind.

"Who knows," he said quietly to Flor, "if it is the heart of

the world, then they'd better not be disturbed in their work.

That's a hell of a responsibility. And if it's not, if it's only a

building, an obsession, it's too beautiful to let die anyway."

"I never thought the heart of the world would be a

building," she said.

"Aren't we all structures?" With the Massawrath and

Helldrink safely far behind he was feeling alive and expan-

sive. He'd always been that way: high ups and abyssal

downs. Right now he was up.

"Each of us develops piece by piece. We're full of careful-

ly built rooms and halls, audience chambers and windows,

and we're populated with changing individualistic thoughts. I

never imagined the heart of the world would be a building,

though." He stared back down the tunnel. It was growing

dark, the radiant growths vanishing as they were prone to at

unexpected intervals.

"In fact, I never thought of the world as having a heart."

The last rich light from the distant chamber was lost to

sight as they rounded a slight bend in the river. Bribbens was

lighting the first lamp.

"That's a nice thought, Jon-Tom. If only having a heart

meant you would be happy."

"I suppose it often means the opposite." But when the

import of her last comment finally penetrated, she had left

him to chat with their stolid steersman.

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THE HOUR OF THE GATE

Jon-Tom hesitated, thought about pursuing it further by

rejoining her to say, "Flor, are you trying to tell me some-

thing?" But he was as afraid of showing ignorance if he was

interpreting her wrongly as he was of failure.

So he sat himself down in the nickering light and began to

clean and tune his duar. As he tightened or loosened the

strings, a gneechee or two would appear behind him, peering

over his shoulder. He knew they were there and did his best

to ignore them.

They were compelled to run on lamplight. Gradually the

immense cave formations, the helictites and flowstone and

such, began to grow smaller. In the narrowing confines of the

river channel the rush and roar reverberated louder from the

walls. The continuing absence of the familiar fluorescent

fungi and their cousins was becoming unsettling.

No one liked the darkness. It reminded them too much of

sleep, and that reminded them of the now distant but never to

be forgotten sight of the Massawrath. More importantly, their

lamp oil was running out. Bribbens had prepared well, but he

hadn't expected to journey for long in total darkness. The

now sorely missed bioluminescents were all that had kept

them from traveling in black. Soon it appeared they might

have to do so, relying on Pog's abilities to guide them, unless

the light-producing vegetation reappeared.

A hand was shaking him. It was too small to be part of the

Massawrath, too solid to be one of its children. Nevertheless

he had an instant of terror before coming awake.

"Get up, Jon-Tom. Move your ass!" It was the urgent

voice of Talea.

"What?" But before he could say anything more she'd

moved on to the next sleeping form. He heard her banging on

an echoing surface.

"Wake up, wizard. You lazy old wizard, wake up!" She

sounded worried.

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Alan Dean Foster

"I still admit to 'old' but not the other." A grumbling

Clothahump clambered to his feet.

Jon-Tom blinked, fought to dig sleep from his eyes. It was

hard to see anything in the reduced light from the lamps.

Bribbens was trying to conserve their dwindling supply of oil.

Then he saw the cause of her anxiety. In the blackness

ahead was a writhing sheet of flame, completely blocking the

river. It hung in the air there, a dull, thick orange-silver that

did not move. The others awoke and moved to the bow to

examine it. All agreed it was a most peculiar kind of fire.

As they cruised closer no rise in temperature or indeed any

heat at all could be felt. The orange-silver hue did not