can work the spell to send me home someday. So 1
suppose I have no choice but to go after this special
medicine. It's not by any chance available from the apoth-
ecary in Lynchbany?"
"I fear not."
"What a lucky guess on my part."
"Teh. Sarcasm in one so young is bad for the liver."
Clothahump raised himself slowly, turned to the end table
that doubled as a bedside desk. He scribbled with a quill
pen on a piece of paper. A moment passed, he cursed, put
a refill cartridge in the quill, and resumed writing.
When he finished, he rolled the paper tight, inserted it
into a small metal tube which hung from a chain, and
handed it to Jon-Tom.
"Here is the formula," he said reverently. "She who is
to fill it will know its meaning."
10
Alan Dean Foster
Jon-Tom nodded, took the chain, and hung it around his
neck. The tube was cool against his chest.
"That is all you need to know."
"Except how to find this magician, or druggist, or
whatever she is."
"A store. Nothing more." Clothahump's reassuring tone
immediately put Jon-Tom on his guard. "The Shop of the
Aether and Neither. It lies in the town of Crancularn."
"I take it this Crancularn isn't a hop, skip, and a jump
from Lynchbany?"
"Depends on your method of locomotion, but for most
mortals, I would say not. It lies well to the south and west
of the Bellwoods."
Jon-Tom made a face. He'd been around enough to have
picked up some knowledge of local geography. "There
isn't anything well to the southwest of here. The Bellwoods
run down to the River Tailaroam which flows into..." he
stopped. "Cranculara's a village on the shore of the
Glittergeist?"
Clothahump looked the other way. "Uh, not exactly, my
boy. Actually it lies on the other side."
"The other side of the river?"
"Noooo. The other side of the ocean."
Jon-Tom threw up his hands in despair. "And that's the
last straw,"
"Actually, lad, it's only the first straw. There are many
more to pass before you reach Crancularn. But reach it you
must," he finished emphatically, "or I will surely perish
from the pain, and any chance you have of returning home
will perish with me."
"But I don't even know how big the Glittergeist is."
"Not all that big, as oceans go." Clothahump strove to
sound reassuring. "It can be crossed in a few weeks. All
you have to do is book passage on one of the many ships
that trade between the mouth of the Glittergeist and distant
Snarken."
"I've heard of Snarken. Big place?"
THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
11
"A most magnificent city. So I have been told, never
having visited there myself. Grander than Polastrindu.
You'd find it fascinating."
"And dangerous."
"No journey is worthwhile unless it is dangerous, but
we romanticize. I do not see any reason for anticipating
trouble. You are a tourist, nothing more, embarked on a
voyage of rest, relaxation, and discovery."
"Sure. From what I've seen of this world it doesn't treat
tourists real well."
"That should not trouble an accomplished spellsinger
like you."
The wizard was interrupted by the sound of another
crash from the nearby storeroom, followed by a few
snatches of drunken song.
"You also have your ramwood staff for protection, and
you no longer are a stranger to our ways. Think of it as a
holiday, a vacation."
"Why do I have this persistent feeling you're not telling
me everything?"
"Because you are a pessimist, my boy. I do not criti-
cize. That is a healthy attitude for one embarked on a
career in magic. I am not sending you after trouble this
time. We do not go to battle powerful invaders from the
east. I am asking you only to go and fetch a handful of
powder, a little medicine. That is all. No war awaits. True,
it is a long journey, but there is no reason why it should
be an arduous one.
"You leave from here, proceed south to the banks of the
Tailaroam, book passage downstream. At its mouth where
the merchant ships dock you, board a comfortable vessel
heading for Snarken. Thence overland to Crancularn. A
short jaunt, I should imagine."
"Imagine? You mean you don't know how far it is from
Snarken to Crancularn?"
"Not very far."
"For someone who deals in exact formulas and spells,
12
Alan Dean Foster
you can be disconcertingly nonspecific at times, Clotha-
hump.''
"And you can be unnecessarily verbose," the turtle shot
back.
"Sorry. My pre-law training. Never use one word where
five will fit. Maybe I would've ended up a lawyer instead
of a heavy-metal bass player."
"You'll never know if you don't return to your own
world, which you cannot do unless ..."
"I know, I know," Jon-Tom said tiredly. "Unless 1
make the trip to this Crancularn and bring back the
medicine you need. Okay, so I'm stuck."
"I would rather know that you had undertaken this
journey with enthusiasm, willingly, out of a desire to help
one who only wishes you well."'
"So would I, but you'll settle for my going because I
haven't got any choice, won't you?"
"Yes," said Clothahump thoughtfully, "I expect that 1
will."
II
He wasn't in the best frame of mind the morning he set
off. Not that anything was keeping him occupied else-
where, he told himself sourly. He had no place in this
world and certainly no intention of setting himself up in
practice as a professional spellsinger.
For one thing, that would put him in direct competition
with Clothahump. Although the wizard thought well of
him, Jon-Tom didn't think Clothahump would take kindly
to the idea. For another, he hadn't mastered his odd
abilities to the point where he could guarantee services for
value received, and might never achieve that degree of
expertise. He preferred to regard his spellsinging as a
talent of last resort, choosing to rely instead on his staff
and his wits to keep him out of trouble.
In fact, the duar provided him with far more pleasure
when he simply played it for fun, just like his battered old
Fender guitar back home. Now he played it to ease his
mind as he walked into town, strumming a few snatches of
very unmagical Neil Diamond while wishing he had Ted
Nugent's way with strings. At the same time he had to be
careful in his selections. Diamond was innocuous enough.
13
14
Alan Dean Poster
If he tried a little Nugent—say, "Cat Scratch Fever" or
"Scream Dream"—there was no telling what he might
accidentally conjure up.
At least the weather favor
ed his journey. It was early
spring- Deep within the Bellwoods, so named for the
bell-shaped leaves which produced a tinkling sound when
the wind blew through them, there was the smell of dew
and new blossoms on the air. Glass butterflies flew every-
where, their stained-glass wings sending shafts of brilliant
color twinkling over the ground. Peppermint bees striped
in psychedelic hues darted among the flowers.
One hitched a ride on his indigo shirt. Perhaps it thought
he was some kind of giant ambulatory flower. Jon-Tom
examined it with interest. Instead of the yellow-and-black
pattern he was accustomed to, his visitor's abdomen was
striped pink, lemon yellow, orange, chocolate brown, and
bright blue. Man and insect regarded one another thought-
fully for a long moment. Deciding he was neither a source
of pollen or enlightenment, the bee droned off in search of
sweeter forage.
Lynchbany Towne was unchanged from the first time
Jon-Tom had seen it, on that rainy day when he, a strange-
to this world, had entered it accompanied by Mudge tl
otter. It was Mudge he sought now. He had no intention
striking out across the Glittergeist alone, no matter ho
much confidence Clothahump vested in him. There was
still far too much of the ways and customs of this place he
was ignorant of.
Mudge's knowledge was of the practical and non-
intellectual variety. Too, nothing was more precious to the
otter than his own skin. He was sort of a furry walking
alarm, ready to jump or take whatever evasive action the
situation dictated at the barest suggestion of danger. Jon-
Tom intended to use him the way the allies had used
pigeons in World War I to detect the presence of poison
gas.
Mudge would have considered the analogy unflattering,
THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
15
but Jon-Tom didn't care what the otter thought. Despite his
questionable morals and wavering sense of loyalty, the
otter had been a great help in the past and could be so
again.
Luck wasn't with Jon-Tom, however. There was no sign
of Mudge in the taverns he normally frequented, nor word
of him in the eating establishments or gambling dens. He
hadn't been seen in some time in any of his usual haunts.
Jon-Tom finally found mention of him in one of the
more reputable rooming houses on the far side of town,
where the stink from the central open sewer was less.
The concierge was an overweight koala in a bad mood.
A carved pipe dangled from her lips as she scrubbed the
floor near the entrance.
"Hay, I've seen him," she told Jon-Tom. Part of her
right ear was missing, probably bitten off during a dispute
with an irate customer.
"I'd laik to know where he gone to much as you, man.
He skip away owing me half a week's rent. That not bad
as some have dun me, but I work hand to run this place
and every silver counts."
"Only a few days' rent, is it?" Jon-Tom squatted to be
at eye level with the koala. "You know where he is, don't
you? You're feeding me some story old Mudge paid you to
tell anyone who came looking for him because he paid you
to do so, because he probably owes everyone but you."
She wrinkled her black nose and wiped her paws on her
apron. Then she broke out in a wide grin. "You a clever
one, you are, man, though strange of manner and talk."
"I'm not really from around here," Jon-Tom confessed.
"Actually my home lies quite a distance from Lynchbany.
Nor am I a creditor or bill collector. Mudge is my friend."
"Is he now?" She dropped her scrub brush in the pail of
wash water and rose. Jon-Tom did likewise. She reached
barely to his stomach. That wasn't unusual. Jon-Tom was
something of a giant in this world where humans barely
topped five and a half feet and many others stood shorter.
16
Alan Dean Foster
"So you his friend, hay? That make you sort of unique.
I wasn't aware the otter had any friends. Only acquain-
tances and enemies."
"No matter. I am his friend, and I need to get in touch
with him."
"What for?"
"I am embarked on a journey in the service of the great
wizard Clothahump."
"Ah, that old fraud."
"He's not a fraud. Haven't you heard of the battle for
the Jo-Troom Gate?"
"Yea, yea, I heard, I heard." She picked up the bucket
of wash water, the scrub brush sloshing around inside. "I
also know you never believe everything you read in the
papers. This journey you going on for him. It going be a
hard one, where someone might get deaded?"
"Possibly."
"Hay, then I tell you where the otter is and you make
sure he go with you?"
"That's the idea."
"Good! Then I tell you where he is. Because I tell you
true, man, he owe me half a week's rent. I just don't want
to tell anyone else because maybe they get to him before
me. But this is better, much better. Worth a few days'
rent.''
"About that rent," Jon-Tom said, jiggling the purse full
of gold Clothahump had given him to pay for his passage
across the Glittergeist.
The concierge waved him off. "Hay nay, man. Just
make sure he go with you on this dangerous journey. More
better I dream of him roasting over some cannibal's spit in
some far-off land. That will give me more pleasure than a
"As you wish, madame." Jon-Tom put the purse aside.
"Only, you must be sure promise to come back here
someday and regale me with the gory details. For that I
pay you myself."
THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
17
"I'll be sure to make it my business," Jon-Tom said
dryly. "Now, where might I find my friend?"
"Not here. North."
"Oglagia Towne?"
"Hay nay, farther west. In Timswitty."
"Timswitty," Jon-Tom repeated. "Thanks. You know
what business he has there?"
She let out a short, sharp bark, a koalaish laugh. "Same
business that otter he have any place he go: thievery,
deception, debauchery, and drunkenness. I wager you find
him easy enough you keep that in mind."
"I will. Tell me. I've never been north of Lynchbany.
What's Timswitty like?"
She shrugged. "Like heah. Like Oglagia. Like any of
the Bellwoods towns. Backward, crowded, primitive, but
not bad if you willing stand up for your rights and work
hard."
"Thank you, madame. You're sure I can't pay you
anything for the information you've given me?"
"Keep you money and make you journey," she told
him. "I look forward to hearing about the otter's slow and
painful death upon you return."
"Don't hold your breath in expectation of his demise,"
Jon-Tom warned her as he turned to leave. "Mudge has a
way of surviving in the damndest places."
"I know he do. He slip out of heah without me smelling
his going. I tell you what. If he don't get himself killed on
this journey of yours, you can pay me his back rent when
you return."
"I'll do better than that, madame. I'll make him pay it
himself, in person."
"Fair enough. You have good traveling, man."
"Good day to you too, madame."
Jon-Tom had no intention of walking all the way to
Timswitty. Not since Clothahump had provided him with
funds for transport. The local equivalent of a stagecoach
was passing through Lynchbany, and he bought himself a
18
Alan Dean Poster
seat on the boxy contraption. It was pulled by four hand-
some horses and presided over by a couple of three-foot-
tall chimpmunks who cursed like longshoremen. They
wore dirty uniforms and scurried about, wrestling baggage
and cartons into the rear of the stage.
Jon-Tom had the wrong notion of who was in charge,
however. As he strolled past the team of four, one of the
horses cocked an eye in his direction.
"Come on, bud, hurry it up. We haven't got all day."
"Sorry. The ticket agent told me you weren't leaving for
another fifteen minutes."
The mare snorted. "That senile bastard. I don't know
what the world's coming to when you can't rely on your
local service people anymore."
"Tell me about it," said the stallion yoked to her.
"Unfortunately we were bom with hooves instead of
hands, so we still have to hire slow-moving fools with
small brains to handle business details for us."
"Right on, Elvar," said the stallion behind him.
The discussion continued until the stage left the depot.
"All aboard?" asked the mare second in harness. "Hold
on to your seats, then."
The two chipmunks squatted in the rear along with the
luggage, preening themselves and trying to catch their
breath. There was no need for drovers, since the horses
knew the way themselves. The chipmunks were loaders
and unloaders and went along to see to the needs of the
team, who, after all, did the real work of pulling the stage.
This would have been fine as far as Jon-Tom and the
other passengers were concerned except that the horses had
an unfortunate tendency to break into song as they galloped,
and while their voices were strong and clear, not a one of
them could carry a tune in a bucket. So the passengers
were compelled to suffer a series of endless, screeching
songs all the way through to Timswitty.