captors for sheer energy, but he could not break the ropes.
46
THE HOUR OF THE GATE
Jon-Tom turned his attention back to the rabbit. "Can you
talk to them, Caz?"
"I believe I can understand their language somewhat,"
was the reply. "A well-traveled animal picks up all sorts of
odd knowledge. As to whether I can 'talk' to them, I don't
think so. Talking takes two, and they strike me as particularly
nonconversant with strangers."
"How is it they speak a language we can't follow?"
"I expect that has something to do with their being
violently antagonistic to what we think of as civilized life.
They're welcome to their isolation, so far as I am concerned.
They are incorrigibly hostile, incorrigibly filthy, and bellicose
to the point of paranoia. I sincerely wish they would all rot
where they stand."
"Amen to that," said Flor.
"What are they going to do with us, Caz?"
"They're talking about that right now." He gestured with
an unbound ear. "That one over there with the spangles, the
chap who fancies himself something of a local dandy? The
one who unfortunately forestalled Clothahump's spell cast-
ing? He's arguing with a couple of his equals. Apparently
they function as some sort of rudimentary council."
Jon-Tom craned his neck, could just see the witch doctor
animatedly arguing with two equally pretentious and noisy
fellows.
One of them displayed the mother of all Fu Manchu
mustaches. It drooped almost to his huge splayed feet. Other
than that he was entirely bald. The third member of the
unkempt triumvirate had a long pointed beard and waxed
mustachio, but wore his hair in a crew cut. Both were as
outlandishly clad as the witch doctor.
"From what I can make out," said Caz, "Baldy thinks
they ought to let us go. The other two, Battop and Bigmouth,
47
Alan Dean Foster
say that since hunting has been poor lately they should
sacrifice us to the gods of the Sward."
"Who's winning?" Flor wanted to know. Jon-Tom thought
that for the first time she was beginning to look a little
frightened. She had plenty of company.
"Can't we talk to them at all?" he asked hopefully. "What
about the one who had Clothahump gagged? Do you know hb
real name?"
"I already told you," said Caz. "His name is Bigmouth.
Flattop, Baldy, and Bigmouth: that's how their names translate.
And no, I don't think we can talk to them. Even if I knew the
right words I don't think they'd let me get a word in
edgewise. It seems that he who talks loudest without letting
his companions make their points is the one who wins the
debate."
"Then if it's just a matter of shouting, why don't you give
it a try?"
"Because I think they'd cut out my tongue if I interrupted
them. I am a better gambler than that, my friend."
It didn't matter, because as he watched the debate-came tc
an end. Baldy shook a threatening finger less than an inch
from Bigmouth's proboscis, whereupon Bigmouth frowned
and kicked the overly demonstrative Baldy in the nuts. As he
doubled over, Rattop brought a small but efficient-looking
club down on Baldy's head. This effectively concluded the
discussion.
Considerable cheering rose from the excited listeners, who
never seemed to be standing still, a condition duplicated by
their mouths.
Jon-Tom wondered at the humanoid metabolism that could
generate such nonstop energy.
"I am afraid our single champion has been vanquished,"
said Caz.
48
THE HOUR Or THE GATE
"I don't want to die," muttered Flor. "Not here, not in
this place." She started reciting Hail Marys in Spanish.
"I don't want to die either," Jon-Tom yelled at her in
frustration.
"This isn't happening," she was saying dully. "It's all a
dream."
been that route. It's no dream. You were enjoying yourself
until now, remember?"
"It was all so wonderful," she whispered. She wasn't
crying, but restraining herself required considerable effort.
"Our friends, the quest we're on, when we rescued you that
night in Polastrindu... it's been just as I'd always imagined
mis sort of thing would be. Being murdered by ignorant
aborigines doesn't fit the rest. Can they actually kill us?"
"I think they can." Jon-Tom was too tired and afraid even
to be sarcastic. "And I think we'll actually die, and actually
be buried, and actually be food for worms. If we don't get out
from here." He looked across at Clothahump, but the wizard
could only close his eyes apologetically.
If we could just lower the gag in Clothahump's mouth
when they're busy elsewhere, he thought anxiously. Some
kind of spell, even one that would just distract them, would
be enough.
But while the Mimpa were uncivilized they were clearly
not fools, nor quite so ignorant as Caz believed. That night
they confidently ignored all their captives except the carefully
watched Clothahump.
At or near midnight they were all made the centerpiece of a
robust celebration. Grass was cut down with tiny axes to form
a cleared circle, and the captives were deposited near the
center, amid a ground cover of foul-smelling granular brown
stuff.
Plor wrinkled her nose, tried breathing through her mouth
49
Alan Dean Foster
instead. "Mierda... what have they covered the ground here
with?"
"I believe it is dried, powdered lizard dung," said Caz
worriedly. "I fear it will ruin my stockings."
"Part of the ceremony?" Jon-Tom had grown accustomed
to strange smells.
"I think it may be more than that, my friend. It appears to
retard the growth of the Sward grasses. An efficient if
malodorous method of control."
Small fires were lit in a circle, uncomfortably near the
bound prisoners. Jon-Tom would have enjoyed the resultant
celebration for its barbaric splendor and enthusiasm, were it
not for the fact that he was one of the proverbial pigs at the
center of the banquet table.
"You said they'd sacrifice us to the gods of the Sward."
As he spoke to Caz he fought to retain both confidence and
sanity. "What gods do they have in mind?" His thoughts
were of the lithe, long-limbed predators they'd seen sliding
ribbonlike through the grass their first week out of Polastrindu.
"I have no idea as yet, my friend." He sniffed disdainfully.
"Whatever, I'm sure it will be a depressing way for a
gentleman to die."
"Is there another way?" Even Mudge's usually irrepress-
ible good humor was gone.
"I had hoped," replied the rabbit, "to die in bed."
Mudge let out a high whistle, some of his good spirits
returning. "0' course, ma
te. Now why didn't I think o' that
right off? This 'ole miserable situation's got me normal
thinkin' paths crossed whixwize. And not alone, I'd wager."
"Not alone your whixwized thoughts, or dying in bed?"
asked Caz with a smile.
"Sort o' a joint occasion is wot I'd 'ave in mind." Again
the otter whistle, and they both laughed.
50
THE HOUR Or THE GATE
"I'm glad somebody thinks this is fanny." Talea glared at
them both.
"No," said Caz more quietly, "I don't think it's very
funny at all, glowtop. But our hands and feet are bound, I can
reach no familiar salve or balm from our supplies though I am
bruised all over. I can't do anything about the damage to my
body, but I try to medicate the spirit. Laughter is soothing to
that."
Jon-Tom could see her turn away from the rabbit, her badly
tousled hair even redder in the glow from the multiple fires.
Her shoulders seemed to droop and he felt an instinctive
desire to reach out and comfort her.
Odd the occasions when you have insights into the person-
alities of others, he thought. Talea struck him as unable to
find much laughter at all in life, or, indeed, pleasure of any
kind. He wondered at it. High spirits and energy were not
necessarily reflective of happiness. He found himself feeling
sorry for her.
Might as well feel sorry for yourself, an inner voice
reminded him. If you don't slip loose of these pygmy para-
noids you soon won't be able to feel sorry for anyone.
Unable to pull free of his bonds, he started working his
way across the circle, trying to come up against a rock sharp
enough to cut diem. But the soil was thick and loamy, and he
encountered nothing larger than a small pebble.
Failing to locate anything else he tried sawing patiently at
his ropes with fingernails. The tough fiber didn't seem to be
parting in the least. Eventually the effort exhausted him and
he slid into a deep, troubled sleep....
Sl
IV
It was morning when next he opened his eyes. Smoke
drifted into the cloudy sky from smoldering camp fires,
fleeing the still, swardless circle like bored wraiths.
Once more the carrying poles were brought into use and he
felt himself lifted off the ground. Flor went up next to him,
and the others were strung out behind. As before, the journey
was brief. No more than three or four hundred yards from the
site of the transitory village, he estimated.
Quite a crowd had come along to watch. The poles were
removed. Mimpa gathered around the six limp bodies. Chattering
among themselves, they arranged their captives in a circle,
back to back, their legs stuck out like the spokes of a wheel.
Arms were bound together so that no one could lie down or
move without his five companions being affected. A large
post was placed in the center of the circle, hammered exuberantly
into the earth, and the prisoners shoulders bound to it.
They sat in the center of a second clearing, as smelly as the
S3
Alan Dean Foster
first. The Mimpa satisfied themselves that the center pole was
securely in the ground and then moved away, jabbering
excitedly and gesturing in a way Jon-Tom did not like at the
captives ringing the pole.
Despite the coolness of the winter morning and the consid-
erable cloud cover, he was sweating even without his cape.
He'd worked his nails and wrists until all the nails were
broken and blood stained the restraining fibers. They had
been neither cut nor loosened.
Along with other useless facts he noted that the grass
around them was still moist from the previous night's rain
and that his feet were facing almost due north. Clothahump
was struggling to speak. He couldn't make himself under-
stood around the gag and in any case didn't have the strength
in his aged frame to continue the effort much longer.
"We can move our legs, anyway," Jon-Tom pointed out,
raising his bound feet and slamming them into the ground.
"Actually, they have secured us in an excellent defensive
posture," agreed Caz. "Our backs are protected. We are not
completely helpless."
"If any of those noulps show up, they'll find out what kind
of legs I have," said Flor grimly, kicking out experimentally
with her own feet.
"Lucky noulps," commented Mudge.
"What a mind you have, otter. La cabeza bizzaro." She
drew her knees up to her chest and thrust out violently. "First
predator that comes near me is going to lose some teeth. Or
choke on my feet."
Jon-Tom kicked outward again, finding the expenditure of
energy gratifying. "Maybe they'll be like sharks and have
sensitive noses. Maybe they'll even turn toward the Mimpa,
finding them easier prey than us."
"Mayhap," said Caz, "but I think you are all lost in
wishful thinking, my friends." He nodded toward the muttering,
54
THE HOUR OF THE GATS
watchful nomads. "Evidently they are not afraid of whatever
they are waiting for. That suggests to me a most persistent
and myopic adversary."
In truth, if they were anticipating the appearance of some
ferocious carnivore, Jon-Tom couldn't understand why the
Mimpa continued to remain close by. They appeared relaxed
and expectant, roughly as fearful as children on a Sunday
School picnic.
What kind of devouring "god" were they expecting?
"Don't you hear something?" At Talea's uncertain query
everyone went quiet. The attitude of expectancy simultaneously
rose among the assembled Mimpa.
This was it, then. Jon-Tom tensed and cocked his legs. He
would kick until he couldn't kick any more, and if one of
those predators got its jaws on him he'd follow Flor's sugges-
tion and shove his legs down its throat until it choked to
death. They wouldn't go out without a fight, and with six of
them functioning in tandem they might stand an outside
chance of driving off whatever creature or creatures were
coming close.
Unfortunately, it was not simply a matter of throats.
By straining against the supportive pole Jon-Tom could just
see over the weaving crest of the Sward. All he saw beyond
riffling tufts of greenery was a stand of exquisite blue- and
rose-hued flowers. It was several minutes before he realized
that the flowers were moving.
"Which way is it?" asked Talea.
"Where you hear the noise." He nodded northward. "Over
there someplace."
"Can you see it yet?"
"I don't think so." The blossoms continued to grow larger.
"All I can see so far are flowers that appear to be coming
toward us. Camouflage, or protective coloration maybe."
"I'm afraid it's likely to be rather more substantial than
56
Alan Dean Foster
that." Caz's nose was twitching rapidly now. Clothahump
produced a muffled, urg
ent noise.
"I fear the kicking will do us no good," the rabbit
continued dispiritedly. "They apparently have set us in the
path of a Marching Porprut."
"A what?" Flor gaped at him. "Sounds like broken
plumbing."
"An analogy closer to the mark than I think you suspect,
night-maned." He grinned ruefully beneath his whiskers. "As
you shall see all too soon, I fear."
They resumed fighting their restraints while the Mimpa
jabbering rose to an anticipatory crescendo. The assembled
aborigines were jumping up and down, pounding the ground
with their spears and clubs, and pointing gleefully from
captives to flowers.
Flor slumped, worn out from trying to free herself. "Why
are they doing this to us? We never did anything to them."
"The minds of primitives do not function on the same
cause-and-effect principles that rule our lives." Caz sniffed,
his ears drooping, nose in constant motion. "Yes, it must be a
Porprut. We should soon be able to see it."
Another sound was growing audible above the yells and
howls of the hysterical Mimpa. It was a low pattering noise,
like small twigs breaking underfoot or rain falling hard on a
wooden roof or a hundred mice consuming plaster. Most of
all it reminded Jon-Tom of people in a theater, watching
quietly and eating popcorn. Eating noises, they were.
The row of solid Sward grass to the north began to rustle.
Fascinated and horrified, the captives fought to see beyond
the greenery.
Suddenly darker vegetation appeared, emerging above the
thin, familiar blades of me Sward. At first sight it seemed
only another type of weed, but each writhing, snakelike
olive-colored stalk held a tiny circular mouth lined with fine
56
THE HOUR OF Tm GATE
fuzzy teeth. These teeth gnawed at the Sward grass. They ate
slowly, but there were dozens of them. Blades went down as
methodically as if before a green combine.
These tangled, horribly animate stems vanished into a
brownish-green labyrinth of intertwined stems and stalks and
nodules. Above them rose beautiful pseudo-orchids of rose
and blue petals.
At the base of the mass of slowly moving vegetation was
an army of feathery white worm shapes. These dug deeply
into the soil. New ones were appearing continuously out of
the bulk, pressing down to the earth like the legs of a
millipede. Presumably others were pulled free behind as the