rewarded with success. For once it appeared that his
spellsong was going to produce only what he wanted. The
otter moved hesitantly out from behind the shelter of the
boulder, while simultaneously holding himself ready to
rush for the trees at the first hint of trouble.
"Bugger me for a blue-eyed bandicoot," he muttered
excitedly. "The lad's gone an' done it!"
Rocking gently in the waves just beyond the breaking
surf was a single-masted sloop. The stern faced shoreward
and on the name-plate everyone could clearly make out the
words JOHN B.
Jon-Tom let the last words of the song trail away. With it
went the Gneechees and the cloud of blue fog from which
the boat had emerged. It bobbed gently at anchor, awaiting
mem.
Roseroar put a proud paw on Jon-Tom's shoulder. "Sugah,
bless man soul if it isn't a spellsingah yo are. That's a
fine-looking ship, for all that her lines are strange to me,
and ah've sailed many a craft."
Jon-Tom continued to pluck fitfully at the duar as if
fearful that the sloop, solid as she looked, might disappear
at any moment in a rush of fog.
"Glad you think so. Me, I've never been on anything
il bigger than a surfboard in my life."
13 "Not to worry. Ah don't recognize the mannah of ship,
but if she sails, ah can handle her."
"So can I." Jalwar appeared behind them, "hi my
youth I spent much time sailing many kinds of ships."
"See?" said Mudge, joining them on the beach. "The
old fur's provin' 'imself valuable already."
"Okay." Jon-Tom nodded reluctantly. "Let's see what
:^ she's like on board."
13 Mudge led them out to the boat, as at home in the water
]1 as he was on land. The others followed. By the time
• Jon-Tom reached the bottom of the boarding ladder, the
-'?. otter had completed a preliminary inspection.
^ "She's fully stocked, she is, though the packin's bloody
jl strange."
iJ "Let me have a look." Jon-Tom went first to the galley.
| Cans and packages bore familiar labels like Hormel,
~i Armor, Oscar Mayer, and Hebrew National. There was
,| more than enough food for an extensive journey, and they
! could fish on the way. The tank for the propane stove read
full. Jon-Tom tried a burner, was rewarded with a blast of
blue flame that caused Roseroar to pull back.
"Ah don't see no source of fire."
"The ship arrives already fully spelled for traveling,"
Jalwar murmured appreciatively. "Impressive."
"hi the song she's supposed to be on a long voyage,"
Jon-Tom explained.
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Alan Dean Foster
There was a diesel engine meant to supplement the sails.
Jon-Tom didn't try it. Let it wait until they were becalmed.
Then he could dazzle them with new magic.
"Roseroar, since you're the most experienced sailor
among us, why don't you be captain?"
"As you wish, Jon-Tom." She squeezed through the
hatchway back onto the deck and began familiarizing
herself with the unusual but not unfathomable rigging. As
with any modern sailing ship, the sloop would almost run
the sails up and down the masts all by itself. It didn't take
the tigress long to figure it out.
An electric winch made short work of the anchor.
Roseroar spun the wheel, the sloop hove around with a
warm breeze filling its sails, and they headed out to sea.
Within an hour they had left the gravel beach and the
Muddletup Moors with its confused fungoid inhabitants far
behind.
"Which way to Snarken?" she asked as she worked the
wheel and a hand winch simultaneously. The mainsail
billowed in the freshening wind.
"I don't know. You're the sailor."
"Sailor ah confess to, but ah'm no navigator, man."
"Southwest," Mudge told her. "For now that's good
enough."
Roseroar adjusted their heading, brought it in line with
the directions supplied by the compass. "Southwest it is."
The sloop changed directions smoothly, responding instantly
to the tigress's light touch on the wheel.
Feeling reasonably confident that at last all was right
with the world, Jon-Tom reprised the song and for good
measure added a chorus of the Beach Boys' "Sail On, Sail
On, Sailor." The sun was warm, the wind steady, and
Snarken seemed just over the near horizon.
Putting up the duar, he escorted Jalwar down to the
galley, there to explain the intricacies of the propane stove
and such otherworldly esoterica as Saran Wrap and can
THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
91
openers to their designated chef. That and the rest of a fine
day well done, he allowed himself to be first to bed.
To be awakened by rough hands shaking him violently.
"Get up, get up, spellsinger!"
Feeling very strange, Jon-Tom rolled over, to find him-
self staring into the worried face of the ferret.
"What... whash wrong?" He was startled by the sound
of his own voice, unnaturally thick and slurred. And the
boat seemed to be rolling in circles.
"We are in bad trouble, spellsinger. Bad trouble."
Jalwar disappeared.
Jon-Tom sat up. It took three tries. Then he tried to get
out of the bunk and discovered he couldn't tell the floor
from the ceiling. The floor found him.
"Wot was that?" said a distant voice.
He struggled to get up. "I don't..." He reached for the
railing of the lower bunk and tried to pull himself upright.
"Wheresh the... ?" Somehow he managed to drag him-
self to a standing position. He stood there on shaky knees
that felt determined to go their own way, exclusive of any
contrariwise instructions from his brain.
"Whash wrong with me?" he moaned.
Two faces appeared in the doorway, one above the other.
Both were blurred.
"Shee-it," said Roseroar. "He's drunk! Ah didn't see
him get into any liquor."
"Nor did I," said Mudge, trying to push past her.
"Give me room, you bloody great amazon!" He put his
hands on Jon-Tom's shoulders and gripped hard. Jon-Tom
staggered backward.
"Blister me for a brown vole if you're not. Where'd you
find the hootch, guv'nor?"
"What hoosh?" Jon-Tom replied thickly. "I didn't..."
The floor almost went out from under him. "Say, whoosh
driving thish bush?"
A disgusted Mudge stepped back. "Can't abide anyone
who can't 'old 'is booze."
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Alan Dean Foster
"Leave him fo now," said Roseroar. "We'll have to
handle this ourselves." They turned to leave.
"Hey, wait!" Jon-Tom yelled. He took a step forward,
and the boat, sly and tricky craft that it was, deliberately
yanked the floor out from under him. He slammed into the
door, hung on for dear life.
Mudge was right, he realized through the glassy haze
that had formed over his eyeballs. I am drunk. Try as he
might, he couldn't remember imbibing anything stronger
than orange juice at supper. After reprising a couple of
choruses of "Sloop John #." to make sure the boat didn't
dematerialize out from beneath them in the middle of the
night, he'd gone to bed. Jalwar was awake and alert.
Everyone was except him.
Suddenly he found himself in desperate need of a
porthole, barely located one in time to stick his face out
and throw his guts all over the equally upset ocean. When
he Finally finished puking he was soaking wet from the
spray. He felt a little less queasy but not any soberer.
Somehow he managed to slam the porthole shut and
refasten it. He staggered toward the gangway, pulled him-
self toward the deck.
Wind hit him hard the instant he stepped out on the teak
planking, and rain filled his vision. Roseroar was holding
the wheel steady with grim determination, but Mudge and
Jalwar were having a terrible time trying to wrestle the
mainsail down.
"Hurry it up!" the tigress roared, her voice barely
audible above the storm, "or we'll lose it fo sure!"
"I don't care if we do," Jon-Tom moaned, putting both
hands to the sides of his head, "just let's not shout about
it, shall we?"
1 'Tell it to the sky, spellsinger,'' pleaded Jalwar.
"Yeah, use your magic, mate," added Mudge. "Turn
this bloomin' weather back to normal!" Jon-Tom noticed
that both of them were soaked. "Get rid of this bloody
bedamned storm!"
THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
93
"Anything, anything," he told them, "if you'll just stop
shouting." He staggered and nearly went careening over-
board, just managed to save himself by grabbing on to a
stay. "I don't unnershtand. It wash so calm when I went to
bed."
"Well 'tis not calm now, mate," snapped Mudge, wres-
tling with the heavy, wet sail.
"Ah've nevah seen a storm like this come up so quick-
ly." Roseroar continued fighting with the wheel.
"The words," Jalwar muttered. "The words of the
spellsinging! Don't you remember?" He looked straight at
Jon-Tom. "Don't you remember the words?"
"But ish just the chorush," Jon-Tom groaned. "Jusht
the chorush." He mumbled them again. " 'Thish ish the
worsht trip, I've ever been on.' I didn't mean that part of
the shong."
The ferret was nodding. "So you sang. The spirits
cannot distinguish between what you sing and mean and
what you sing and do not mean. They have a way of taking
everything literally."
"But ish not the worsht trip I've ever been on!"
Jon-Tom stood away from the rail on rubbery legs and
screamed his protest at the skies that threatened to swamp
them. "Ish not"
The skies paid him no heed.
For hours they battled the winds. Twice they were in
danger of being swamped. They were saved only by the
unmagical efforts of the sloop's pump. Somehow Jon-Tom
got it started, though the effort made him upchuck all over
the engine room. That wouldn't happen again, though. His
stomach was empty.
If only it would feel empty.
Soon after they pumped out the second holdful of water,
the storm began to abate. An hour later the mountainous
seas started to subside. And still there was no real relief,
because thunder and lightning gave way to a thick,
impenetrable fog.
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Alan Dean Poster
Mudge was leaning on the rail, grumbling. "We'd
better not be near any land, mates." He glanced upward.
A faint glow suffused the upper reaches of the fog bank,
which had not thinned in the slightest. "I know you're up
there, you great big ugly yellow bastard! Why don't you
bum this driftin' piss off so we can see to be on our way!"
"The words of the song," Ja!war murmured. Mudge
snarled at him.
"And you pack in it, guv'nor, or I'll do it for you."
It was morning. Somewhere the sun was up there,
probably laughing at them. The compass still showed the
way, but the wind had vanished with the storm, and none
of Jon-Tom's feeble coaxing could induce the shiny new
diesel engine to perform.
The restored sail hung limp against the mast. The sloop
was floating through glassy, smooth, shallow water. A
sandy bottom occasionally rose dangerously close to the
keel, only to fall away again into pale blue depths each
time it looked like they were about to ground. Roseroar
steered as best she could, and with an otter and a ferret
aboard there was at least no shortage of sharp eyesight.
But as the day wore on and the fog clung tenaciously to
them, it began to look as if Jon-Tom's song was to prove
their simultaneous salvation and doom. The wind remained
conspicuous by its absence. Sooner or later the shallows
would close in around them and they would find them-
selves marooned forever in the midst of a strange sea.
The tension was taking its toll on everyone, even Roseroar.
Their spellsinger, who had conjured up this wonderful
craft, was of no use to anyone, least of all himself.
Thankfully he no longer threw up. Yet despite his unarguable
abstinence from any kind of drink, he remained falling-
down drunk. Smashed. Potted.
If anything, his condition had worsened. He strolled
slurred none of his companions could decipher them.
Just as a precaution, Mudge had sequestered Jon-Tom's
THE DAY OF THK DISSONANCE
95
duar in a safe place. He'd gotten them into this situation
while sober. It was terrifying to contemplate what might
happen if he started spellsinging while drunk.
"We have one chance," Jalwar finally declared.
"Wot's that, guv'nor?" Mudge sat on the port side of
the bow, keeping his eyes on the threatening shallows.
"To turn around. We aren't that far yet from the beach
where this unfortunate turn of events began. We can return
there, land, or use this craft, provided the wind will return,
to take us back to the mouth of the Tailaroam and
civilization."
"I'm tempted, guv, but 'e'll never stand for it." He
nodded back to where Jon-Tom lay sprawled on his back
on the deck, alternately laughing and hiccuping at the fog.
"How can he object to stop us?" wondered Jalwar. "He
has the gift, but no control over it."
"That may be, guv. I'm sure as 'ell no expert on
spellsingin', but this I do know. 'E's me friend, and I
promised 'im that I'd see 'im through this journey to its
end, no matter wot 'appens."
Besides which, the otter reminded himself, if they
returned without the medicine, there would be no rich
reward from a grateful Clothahump. Mudge had endured
too much already to throw that promise away now.
"But what else can we do?" Jalwar moaned. "None of
us is a wizard or
sorcerer. We cannot cure his odd
condition, because it is the result of his own spellsinging."
"Maybe it'll cure itself." Mudge tried to sound optimis-
tic. He watched sadly as Jon-Tom rolled over on the center
cabin and tried to puke again. "I feel sorry for 'im. 'Tis
clear 'e ain't used to liquorish effects." As if to reinforce
the otter's observation, Jon-Tom rolled over again and fell
off the cabin, nearly knocking himself out on the deck.
Lifting himself to a sitting position, he burst out laughing.
He was the only one on the boat who found the situation
amusing.
Mudge shook his head. "Bleedin' pitiful."
"Yes, it is sad," Jalwar agreed.
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Alan Dean Foster
"Cor, but not the way you think it is, mate. 'Ere 'e is,
sufferin' from one o' the finest binges I've ever seen
anybody on, and 'e ain't even had the pleasure o' drinkin'
the booze. Truly pitiful." A glance downward showed
sand looming near.
"Couple o' degrees to starboard, luv!" he called stemward.
"Ah heah y'all." Roseroar adjusted the boat's heading.
The sandy bottom fell away once again.
"It'll wear off," the otter mumbled. "It 'as to. Ain't
nobody can stay drunk this long no matter 'ow strong a
spell's been laid on 'is belly. I wonder when 'e did it?"
"The same tune he did everything else," Jalwar explained.
"Don't you remember the song?"
"You mean that part about it bein' 'the worst trip I've
ever been on'?"
"Not just that. Remember that he made the tigress
captain because she was the best sailor among us? That
would leave him as next in command, would it not?"
"Beats me, mate. I'm not much on ships and their
lore."
"He reduced himself to first mate," Jalwar said posi-
tively. "That was in the song, too. A line that went
something like "The first mate, he got drunk.' "
"Aye, now I recall." The otter nodded toward the
helpless spellsinger, who remained enraptured by a hyste-
ria perceptible only to himself. "So 'e spellsung 'imself
into this condition without even bein' aware o1 doin' it."
"I fear that is the case."
"Downright pitiful. Why couldn't 'e 'ave made me first
mate? I'd 'andle a long drunk like this ten times better than
'e would. 'E's got to come out of it sometime."
"I hope so," said Jalwar. He glanced at the sky.
"Perhaps we will lose this infernal fog, anyway. Then we
might pick up a wind enabling us to turn back."