neetha Napew - Spellsinger

notes sauntered through the forest air. They still possessed the inexplicable if

familiar electronic twang of his old Grundig. Blue sparks shot from beneath his

fingers.

He started to hum a few bars of "Scarborough Fair," then thought better of it.

He didn't want anything to divert them from their intended rendezvous with

Clothahump. Who knew what some casually uttered words might conjure up? Possibly

they might suddenly find themselves confronted with a fair, complete with food,

jugglers and minstrels, and even police.

Play to amuse yourself if you must, he told himself, but keep the words to

yourself. So he kept his mouth shut while he continued to play. His fingers

stayed clear of the longer upper strings because no matter how softly he tried

to strum those, they generated a disconcertingly vast barrage of sound. They

remained linked to some mysterious magickry of amplification that he was

powerless to disengage.

He'd hoped for a four-wheel drive, tried for two-wheel, and had produced a

no-wheel drive that was far more efficient than anything he'd imagined. Now,

what else would add to his feeling of comfort in the forest? An M-16 perhaps, or

considering the size of the riding snake and its as yet unseen but possibly

belligerent relatives, maybe a few Honest John Rockets.

What'd he'd likely get would be a sword or something. Better to rely on his wits

and the war staff bouncing against his spine. Or he might produce the weapon in

the firing stage. He would have to be very, very careful indeed if he tried to

sing up anything else, he decided. Perhaps Clothahump would have some good

advice.

He continued to play as they slithered on through increasing darkness. When

asked about why they were continuing, Talea replied, "We want to make as much

distance as we can tonight."

"Why the sudden rush? We're doing a helluva lot better than we did when we were

walking."

She leaned to her left, looked past him, and pointed downward. "We weren't

leaving this kind of trail, either." Jon-Tom looked back and noted the wake of

crushed brush and grass the snake was producing. "Outriders from Thieves' Hall

will surely pick it up."

"So? Why should they connect that up with us?"

"Probably they won't. But L'borean riding snakes are available only to the

extremely wealthy. They'd follow any such track, especially one not leading

straight for town, hoping to run down a fat prize. Their disappointment in

finding us instead of some rich merchant wouldn't bode well for our futures."

"Bloody well right," agreed Mudge readily. "There's a disconcertin' and

disgustin' tendency toward settlin' discontents without resortin' to words."

"Beg your pardon?" said Jon-Tom with a frown.

"Kill first and ask questions afterward."

He nodded grimly. "We have some of those where I come from, too."

He turned moodily back to the duar. It was barely visible in the intensifying

night. He fiddled with the bottom controls, and the strings fluttered with blue

fire as he played. Carefully he kept his lips closed, forced himself not to

voice the words of the song he was playing. It was hard to remember the melody

without voicing the words. A silver-dollar moon was rising in the east.

Once he caught himself softly singing words and something green was forming

alongside the snake. Damn, this wasn't going to work. He needed to play

something without words in order to be completely safe.

He changed the motion of his fingers on the strings. Better, he thought. Then he

noticed Mudge staring at him.

"Something wrong?"

"Wot the 'ell is goin' on with you, Jon-Tom?"

"It's a Bach fugue," he replied, not understanding. "Quite a well-known piece

where I come from."

" 'Ell with that, mate. I wasn't referrin' t' your music. I was referrin' t'

your company."

His voice was oddly muted, neither alarmed nor relaxed. Jon-Tom looked to his

right... and had to grab the saddle handle to keep from falling out of his

seat....

X

He found himself staring directly at a huge swarm of nothing. That is, it seemed

that there was definitely something present. Hundreds of somethings, in fact.

But when he looked at them, they weren't there.

They had moved to his left. He turned to face them, and as he did so, they moved

somewhere else.

"Above you, mate... I think." Jon-Tom's head snapped back, just in time to espy

the absence of whatever it had been. They'd moved down and to his right, behind

a large gingko tree where he couldn't see them because they'd shifted their

position to his left, where they no longer were and...

He was getting dizzy.

It was as if he were hunting a visual echo. He was left teasing his retinas;

every time he turned there were the shadows of ghosts.

"I don't see a thing. I almost do, but never quite."

"Surely you do." Mudge was grinning now. "Just like meself, we're seeing them

after they aren't there any more."

"But you were looking at them a moment ago," said Jon-Tom, feeling very foolish

now because he knew there was definitely something near them in the forest. "You

told me where to look, where they'd moved to."

"You're 'alf right, mate. I told you where t' look, but not where they were. You

can only see where they've been, not where they are." He scratched one ear as he

stared back over a furry shoulder. "It never works. You never can see 'em, but

those folks who are lucky enough not t' almost see 'em never stop from tryin'.

There!"

He gestured sharply to his right. Jon-Tom's head spun around so fast a nerve

spasmed in his neck and he winced in pain. Visual footprints formed in

afterimage in his brain.

"They're all around us," Mudge told him. "Around you, mostly."

"What are?" His brain was getting as twisted as his optic nerves. It was bad

enough not to be able to see something you knew was present without having to

try and imagine what they were. Or weren't. It was like magnets. You could get

the repelling poles close to each other, but at the last possible instant,

they'd always slide apart.

"Gneechees."

Jon-Tom turned sharply to his left. Again his gaze caught nothing. He was

positive if he shifted his eyes just another quarter inch around he'd have

whatever was there in clear focus. "What the hell are gneechees?"

"Blimey, you mean you don't 'ave 'em where you come from?"

"Where I come from we don't have a lot of the things you're used to, Mudge."

"I always thought..." The otter shrugged. "The gneechees be everywhere around

us. Some times they're more visible than at others, or less invisible 'ud be a

better way o' puttin' it. Millions and millions of 'em."

"Millions? Then why can't I see just one?"

Mudge threw up his paws. "Now that's a fine question, ain't it? I don't know.

Nobody knows. Not even Clothahump, I'd wager. As to wot they be, that's another

nice little mystery. 'Bout the best description I ever 'eard of 'em was that

they're the things you seen when you turn your 'ead and there's nothin' there,

but you're sure there was somethin'. Gneechees are wot you almost see out o' the

corner o' your eye, and when you turn to look at it, it's gone. They're the

almost-wases, the nearly theres, the maybe-couldbes. They're always with us and

never there."

Jon-Tom leaned thoughtfully back in his saddle, fighting the urge to glance

constantly to right or left. "Maybe we do have them. But they seem to be just

slightly more visible, just a touch more substantial here than back home." He