"Everybody knows wot it is, mate. Tis a giant pit.
The earth's nothin' but a ripening fruit, you know.
Planted in infinity. One o' these days she's goin' to
sprout, and then we'll all see some changes."
"Primitive superstitious nonsense. The center of
the planet is composed of metal and rock kept mol-
ten under the influence of tremendous heat and
pressure." That said, he rolled over and tried to go
to sleep.
The rain trickled down his cape, drumming on its
impenetrable exterior, spattering on the surface of
the Wrounipai. A giant pit. What an absurd notion!
As absurd as the presence of barely substantial crea-
tures living within the rock itself. Wormlike creatures.
Didn't worms infest rotten fruit?
Nonsense, utter nonsense. He refused to consider
it any further. It was ridiculous, insane, crazy.
Besides, the image it conjured up made him dis-
tinctly uncomfortable.
He tried to concentrate on the memory of their
visitors instead. What could you call them? Earth-
dwellers, rock people, stone citizens? Idly he won-
dered what would happen if thousands, millions of
them joined together along a really big crack in the
earth's crust. Along the San Andreas Fault back
home, say. What lay beneath that ancient fracture?
Merely different sections of continental plate rub-
bing against each other? Or was it occasionally lined
with millions of the geological folk joined head to
tail, all preparing to produce one sudden, convulsive
twist every hundred years or so?
That thought wasn't conducive tcr restful sleep
either, here or on any other world. Geologic folk
brought to the surface of the earth by his spellsinging:
how absurd! As were so many things in heaven and
THE MOMS/IT or TVS MACHCSAM
1S9
earth that were no less real for their absurdity.
Geological folks. Geo folk. Geolks. Since they had no
name for themselves, he'd call them that. In his
memories, since it was highly unlikely he'd ever
encounter them again. He drifted slowly off to sleep,
wondering if he'd ever be able to go spelunking
again without seeing luminous, insubstantial eyes all
around him.
Jon-Tom had hopes that the karst landscape they
were passing through was an indication of drier
country to come. Several days of steady travel south-
ward quickly dispelled such hopes. The rocky spires
became smaller and smaller and were not replaced
by spacious, dry islands. Once again they found
themselves paddling through scum-encrusted stag-
nant water beneath umbrellalike, drooping trees.
As they progressed he came to at least one decision:
if Clothahump ever asked him again to undertake
another "pleasant little journey," he was going to insist
first on getting an accurate, non-metaphorical descrip-
tion of the country he was going to have to cross.
But of course, that wouldn't matter, because he
and this Markus the Ineluctable were going to be-
come fast friends, and Jon-Tom was going to utilize
their joint talents to enable him to return home-
That exhilarating thought helped sustain him as he
and Mudge slogged on through the relentless heat
and humidity.
At midday they usually paused for a rest and a
brief snack, and also to allow the steaming sun an
hour or so to fall from its zenith. The little islet they
chose was not particularly inviting in appearance—
full of odd-shaped, inflexible growths and gnarled
protrusions—but it was the only dry land in the
Unstable bog they were presently traversing.
Return home. Home meant Big Macs and Monday
Night Football, throwing Frisbees at the beach and
Alan Dean Foster
160
watching Saturday morning cartoons... the good old
stuff, not the sloppy new 'crap.:. catching up on his
back work and the movies he'd missed. If there was
any back work for him to return to. As far as anyone
at the university was concerned, he'd simply disap-
peared, dropped out. quit. He was going to have a
hell of a time getting his active status restored, much
less changing the incompletes he'd have received in
class- Sure he was.
All he had to do was tell them what he'd been
doing these past months- Sorry, counselor, but you
see, I just happened to find myself yanked through
to this other world, but if my friends Clothahump
and Mudge were here to explain... Clothahump,
see, he's a wizard. A turtle, sir, abdut four foot high.
Mudge is taller, but that's because he's an otter
and... excuse me, counselor, but who are you calling?
No, he'd have to concoct something a bit more
believable than that. Believable and elegant. Maybe
he could tell them that he'd become bored with the
routine of studying and had gone off to South America
to expand his mind. Professors always liked to hear
that you'd been expanding your mind.
A light tremor made the ground shift slightly
beneath them.
"Your ghostly friends again," Mudge suggested,
his words garbled because his mouth was full of fish
jerky.
Jon-Tom gazed down at the slick surface they sat
upon. It was bright daylight and hard to tell, but he
didn't see any sign of the geolks. Besides, he wasn't
playing anything on his duar. Maybe they were just
lingering in his wake, hoping he'd play again some-
time soon.
He bent over, squinted. Very strange ground. Dead
and dying vegetation, lichens and mosses, algae and
crustaceans. "1 don't think the geolks are around,
THX MOMENT OF TUB JHAGICMJV
161
Mudge. Anything could shake this pile of humus
we're sitting on. Maybe it was a passing wave."
The otter gestured at the stagnant water surround-
ing them. "Ain't no waves here, mate, except the ones
ypu and I make with the raft."
A second tremor rattled their senses, much stronger
than the first. Gingerly, jon-Tom rose to a standing
position-
"Uh, Mudge, I think it might be a good idea if we
got back on the raft. Real quiet- and quick-like."
The otter was several syllables and three steps
ahead of him. The shaking resumed and now it was
constant as Jon-Tom half ran, half stumbled toward
the raft.
The island was beginning to rise beneath them.
x
"Damn it, mate, move your arse!" Mudge yelled as
Jon-Tom fell to hands and knees. The otter extend-
ed a paw out to his friend.
Jon-Tom tried to stand, but the surface under his
feet was now .shaking like Jell-0 as it rose from the
water. He gathered himself and leaped, landing hard
on the raft. Mudge shoved frantically at the paddles,
trying to push them back into the water.
Too late. The is
land had risen on all sides, and
they found themselves ascending into the damp air
along with the beached raft- Water rushed off the
black hillside, turning to foam where rising mass met
the swamp. Mudge lay flat on the deck of the raft,
clinging to the vines that held the logs together,
while Jon-Tom wrapped both arms around one of
the paddle poles. They were surrounded by strange
growths which seemed to be attached to the island's
bulk even where it had rested beneath the water.
They resembled the skeletons of dead cacti, hollow
and light,
Shellfish, snails, and other inhabitants of shallow-
water environments scrambled for the water as their
homes were lifted into the air. Jon-Tom would have
162
THE MOMENT OF THE MAGICIAN
163
joined them, but they couldn't abandon the raft and
all their supplies.
The section of island on which they teetered final-
ly stabilized, but the black land ahead continued
riding- This substantial tower of mud and swamp
ooze didn't stop growing until it loomed threateningly
over them. Innumerable bottom-dwellers, frantic fish,
and trapped underwater plants dripped from the
tower's sides.
Then the ooze opened its dozen or so eyes and
stared down at the puny creatures marooned on its
back.
Mudge let go of the vines, put both hands over his
eyes, and moaned, "Oh shit!" while Jon-Tom contin-
ued clinging to the paddle nearby, staring wide-eyed
up at the emergent mountain of swamp muck.
"Ho, ho, ho!" said the apparition, showing a dark,
toothless mouth more than wide enough to swallow
the raft and its occupants whole- "What have we
here? Strangers!"
Jon-Tom tried to smile. "Just passing through."
"You scratched me." The voice was heavy, ponderous,
and slow.
"We're sorry. We didn't mean to."
"Oh, that's all right. I liked it." It grinned hugely.
Jon-Tom noted that the size of the vast mouth wasn't
fixed. It expanded and contracted and sometimes
tended to slide toward the side of the head. So did
the eyes, which ballooned from tiny dots to globular
bulbs the size of a car. The vast curving bulk blotted
out trees and sky.
"I am," Jon-Tom replied carefully, "relieved to
hear it."
"You're nice," said the ooze. "Different. I like
different." Eyes indicated the surrounding swamp.
"Nothing here is different. Everything's always the
same. 1 like different."
Alan Dean Foster
164
Jon-lbm's arms were cramping. Slowly, he loosened
his grip on the paddle pole. "You live here in
the swamp?" Now, there, he thought, was a clever
question.
The answer was not as self-evident as he believed.
A slow, rippling laugh emerged from somewhere
down in the depths. It sounded like distant Strums.
"Sort of. I am the swamp, I am the ————" and it
said something incomprehensible.
Jon-Tom frowned. "Sorry. I didn't get that last."
The intelligent ichor repeated the rumble, which
sounded more like a volcanic belch than anything
else.
"What do you make of that, Mudge?"
"Indigestion, or else its name is Brulumpus." The
otter had recovered enough courage to peek out
between his shielding fingers.
"Brulumpus," Jon-Tom muttered to himself. He
kept his eyes on those of the swamp, which wasn't
an easy task, considering how they tended to float
in and out of the black goop. They moved about like
marbles in oil. A queasy concept. He tried to think of
something else.
"That is me, the ————" and it made the belching
sound again.
Jon-Tom let go of the pole. Despite its size and
bulk, the mountain of muck did not sound threatening.
If anything, it seemed to be making an effort to be
friendly. Also. Clothahump had once told him never
to let himself be intimidated by mere size. That was
not so easy to do when a potential threat completely
surrounded you.
He tried to phrase his words carefully. The
Brulumpus didn't seem especially bright. "Very pret-
ty swamp you are. I'm glad we haven't bothered
you." He gestured with his left hand. "We're on a
journey south "
THE MOMEJVT OT THE MAGICIAN
165
"That's nice," said the mountain.
Not very bright at all, Jon-Tom mused. "Now, in
order for us to be able to continue on our way, we
have to have our raft here back in the water. Could
ypu"—and he described the action with his hands—
"let us down so we can get back in the water to
continue our journey?"
"Continue your journey." The sides of the Brulum-
pus shimmied and Jon-Tom had to steady himself
with the paddle. "But you are different. You are a
change. I like different. I like changes."
"Yes, and we like you, too, but we really do have to
be on our way. It's very important."
It made no impression on the Bruhimpus. "Change.
A change," it repeated ponderously. "I want you to
stay and be different for me."
"We'd love to, but we can't. We have to be on our
way."
"Stay. I'll keep you close to me always and take care
of you. You want food, I can give you food." A
portion of submerged swamp rose. Trapped within
fish. They fluttered helplessly for a moment until
the swamp sank again-
"Ifyou are wet, I can make you dry." Jon-Tom and
Mudge winced as a thick shield of solid goo arched
from the water to shield their raft from the clouds
overhead. It hung there for several seconds before
withdrawing.
"I will hug you and love you and keep you,"
announced the delighted Brulumpus.
"That's awfully sweet of you, and we'd love to take
^ou up on it, but we really have to—"
"Hug you and love you and please you and pet you
and..."
Jon-Tom was about to reiterate his protest when a
Alan Dean Foster
166
strong paw on his wrist made him hesitate. Mudge
stood on tiptoe to whisper.
"Stow it, mate- Can't you see you're not getdn'
through to it? Garbage you're tryin' to be logical
with, and it with brains to match. It ain't goin' to let
us leave any more than the mimevines were goin' to."
"But it has to let us go." The duar rested comfort-
ably against his back. "I can always try singing us
out."
"Don't know as 'ow that'll work. this time, guv. 1
don't know if this pile o' shit is smart enough to be
spellsung- 'Tis friendly enough now- We sure as 'ell
don't want to do nothin' to upset the little darlin*. It
doesn't move real fast and it doesn't think real fast,
an
d it just might get irritated-like before your
spellsingin* could 'ave any effect."
"Keep you happy and feed you and hug you." The
Brulumpus kept repeating the paternal dirge over
and over.
"Then what do we do, Mudge?"
"Don't look at me, mate. I'm just suggestin' caution,
is all. You're the would-be wizard around 'ere. Me, I
just copes with things as they come. Ordinary things,
everyday things. I'll fight me way through any swamp,
no matter 'ow filthy and disease-ridden. But I'm
damned if I'm goin' to sit and argue with it."
"You're such a great help to me, Mudge."
The otter smiled thinly. " 'Tis all done out 'o grati-
tude for the wonderful opportunities you've sent me
way, mate." He put his paws to his ears to try and
shut out the Brulumpus's unbroken recitation of
love.
"Touch you and hold you and feed you..."
"Wotever you're goin' to try, male, try it soon. I
ain't certain 'ow much longer 1 can stand listemrf to
that slop,"
"What do you expect from slop except slop-talk?"
THE MOMENT OF THE UAOICIAM
167
Keeping Mudge's warning in mind, he tried to decide
what to try next while the Brulumpus persisted with its
affectionate litany.
It liked them because they represented a change
in monotonous surroundings, because they were
different. That couldn't last forever. Eventually it
would grow bored with them- Given its low level of
intelligence, however, that day might be a long time
in coming. How long? No way to tell. The Brulumpus
might continue loving and holding and petting them
for a couple of decades. Or even longer. If the
/ Brulumpus was indeed a part of the Wrounipai it
| might be extremely long-lived. It might not tire of
'A them until they'd become a couple of desiccated
corpses waiting to be shucked off tike any other kind
of boredom.
- What did it find so different, so intriguing about
them? Not their appearance, surely, for there was
nothing distinctive about either man or otter. Their
intelligence, perhaps? Sure, that had to be it! The
Wrounipai wanted more than companionship and
company- It wanted to listen to some new conversation,
wanted what it couldn't get from a tree, a rock, a
fish.
There had to be a way out, a way that would allow
them to depart without alarming their benign captor.
"Want to hear something interesting?" The moun-
tain of muck leaned forward, drenching one end of