chidingly, "but must push ahead. At least we will no longer
be troubled by the Mimpa." He let out an unwizardly chuck-
le. "It will be days before they cease running."
"Do we continue on tonight, then?"
"For a short while, just enough to leave this immediate
area behind. Then we shall mount a guard, just in case, and
continue on tomorrow in daylight. The weather looks un-
pleasant and we will have difficulty enough in holding to our
course.
"Then too, while I don't know how you young folk are
feeling, I'm not ashamed to confess that the body inside this
old shell is very much in need of sleep."
Jon-Tom had no argument with that. Falameezar or no
Falameezar, Mimpa or no Mimpa, he was dead tired. Which
was a good deal better than what he'd earlier thought he'd be
this night: plain dead.
The storm did not materialize the next day, nor the one
following, though the Swordsward received its nightly dose of
steady rain. Plor was taking a turn at driving the wagon. It
was early evening and they would be stopping soon to make
camp.
A full moon was rising behind layers of gray eastern
clouds, a low orange globe crowning the horizon. It turned
the rain clouds to gauze as it lifted behind them, shedding
ruddy light over the darkening sward. Snowflakelike reflec-
tions danced elf steps on the residue of earlier rain.
From the four patient yoked lizards came a regular, heavy
swish-swish as they pushed through the wet grasses. Easy con-
versation and occasional laughter punctuated by Mudge's
lilting whistle drifted out from the enclosed wagon. Small
66
THE HOUR OF THE GATE
things rose cautiously to study the onward trundling wooden
beast before dropping down into grass or groundholes.
Jon-Tom parted the canvas rain shield and moved to sit
down on the driver's seat next to Flor. She held the reins
easily in one hand, as though bom to the task, and glanced
over at him. Her free hand rested across her thighs. Her long
black hair was a darker bit of shadow, like a piece of broken
black plate glass, against the night. Her eyes were luminous
and huge.
He looked away from their curious stare and down at his
hands. They twisted and moved uncomfortably in his lap, as
though trying to find a place to hide; little five-footed crea-
tures he could not cage.
"I think we have a problem."
"Only one?" She grinned at him, barely paying attention
to the reins now. Without being told, the lizards would
continue to plod onward on their present course.
"But that's what life's all about, isn't it? Solving a series
of problems? When they're as varied and challenging as
these," and she flicked long nails in the air, a brief gesture
mat casually encompassed two worlds and a shift in dimen-
sion, "why, that adds to the spice of it."
"That's not the kind of problem I'm talking about, Flor.
This one is personal."
She looked concerned. "Anything I can do to help?"
"Possibly." He looked up at her. "I think I'm in love with
you. I think I've always been in love with you. I..."
"That's enough," she told him, raising a restraining hand
and speaking gently but firmly. "In the first place, you can't
have always been in love with me because you haven't known
me for always. Metaphysics aside, Jon-Tom, I don't think
you've known me long enough.
"In the second place, I don't think you're really in love
with me. I think you're in love with the image of me you've
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Alan Dean Foster
seen and added to in your imagination, es verdad, amigo^ To
be erode about it, you're in love with my looks, my body
Don't think I hold it against you. It's not your fault. Your
desires and wants arc a product of your environment."
This was not going the way he'd hoped, he mused confusedly.
"Don't be so sure that you know all about me either, Flor."
"I'm not." She was not offended by his tone. "I mean,
how have you 'seen' me, Jon-Tom? How have you 'known'
me? Short skirt, tight sweater, always the perfect smile,
perfectly groomed, long hair flouncing and pom-poms jounc-
ing, isn't that about it?"
"Don't patronize me."
"I'm not patronizing you, dammit! Use your head, hom-
bre. I may look like a pinup, but I don't think like one. You
can't be in love with me because you don't know me."
"'Ere now, wot the 'ell are you two fightin' about?"
Mudge stuck his furry face out from behind the canvas. " 'T!S
too bloomin' nice a night for such witterin'."
"Back out, Mudge," said Jon-Tom curdy at the interrup-
tion. "This is none of your business."
"Oh, now let's not get our bowels in an uproar, mate. Suit
yourself." With a last glance at them both, he obligingly
retreated inside.
"I won't deny that I find you physically attractive, Flor."
"Of course you do. You wouldn't be normal if you
didn't." She stared out across the endless dark plain, kissed
with orange by the rising moon. "Every man has, ever since
I was twelve years old. I've been through this before." She
looked back at him.
"The point is you don't know me, the real Hores Quintera.
So you can't be in love with her. I'm flattered, but if we're
going to have any kind of chance at a real relationship, we'd
best start fresh, here and now. Without any preconceived
68
THE HOUK Of THE QATK
notions about what I'm like, what you'd like me to be like, or
what I represent to you. ComprendeV
"Bor, don't you think I've had a look at the real you these
past weeks?" Try as he might, he couldn't help sounding
defensive.
"Sure you have, but that's hardly long enough. And you
can't be certain that's the real me, either. Maybe it's only
another facet of my real personality, whose aspects are still
changing."
"Wait a minute," he said hopefully. "You said, 'chance at
a real relationship.' Does that mean you think we have a
chance for one?"
"I've no idea." She eyed him appraisingly. "You're an
interesting man, Jon-Tom. The fact that you can work magic
here with your music is fascinating to me. I couldn't do it.
But I don't know you any better than you know me. So why
don't we start clean, huh? Pretend I'm just another girl
you've just met. Let's call this our first date." She nodded
skyward. "The moon's right for it."
"Kind of tough to do," he replied, "after you've just
poured out a deeply felt confession of love. You took that
apart like a professor dissecting a tadpole."
"I'm sorry, Jon-Tom." She shrugged. "That's part of the
way I am. Part of the real me, as much as the pom-poms or
my love of the adventure of this world. You have to leam to
accept them all, not just the ones you like." She tried to
sound encouraging. "If it's any consolation, while I may
not
love you, I do like you."
"That's not much."
"Why don't you get rid of that hurt puppy-dog look, too,"
she suggested. "It won't do you any good. Come on, now.
Cheer up! You've let out what you had to let out, and I
haven't rebuffed you completely." She extended an open
69
Alan Dean Foster
hand. "Buenos noches, Jon-Tom. I'm Plores Maria Quintera.
Como 'stasT'
He looked silently at her, then down at the proferred palm.
He took it with a resigned sigh. "Jon-Tom.. .Jon Meriweather.
Pleased to meet you."
After that, they got along a little more easily. The punctur-
ing of Jon-Tom's romantic balloon released tension along
with hopes....
70
v
It was a very ordinary-looking river, Jon-Tom thought.
Willow and cypress and live oak clustered thirstily along its
sloping banks. Small scaly amphibians played in thick under-
brush. Reeds claimed the quiet places of the slow-moving
eddies.
The bank on the far side was equally well fringed with
vegetation. From time to time they encountered groups of
animals and humans occupied in various everyday tasks on
the banks. They would be fishing, or washing clothes, or
simply watching the sun do the work of carrying forth the
daytime.
The wagon turned eastward along the southern shore of the
Sloomaz-ayor-le-WeentIi, heading toward the growing massif
of the mountains and passing word of the coming invasion to
any wannlander who would listen. But the River of Twos was
a long way from Polastrindu, and the Jo-Troom Gate and the
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Alan Dean Foster
depredations of the Plated Folk only components of legend to
the river dwellers.
All agreed with the travelers on one matter, however: the
problem of trying to pass downstream and through the Teeth.
"Eh?" said one wizened old otter in response to their
query, "ye want to go where?" In contrast to Mudge the
oldster's fur was streaky-white. So were his facial whiskers.
Arthritis bent him in the middle and gnarled his hands and
feet.
"Ye'll never make it. Ye won't make it past the entrance
and if ye do, ye'll not find yer way through the rock. Too
many have tried and none have ever come back."
"We have resources others did not have," said Clothahump
confidentally. "I am something of a formidable conjurer, and
my associate here is a most powerful spellsinger." He ges-
tured at me lanky form of Ion-Tom. They had stepped down
from the wagon to talk with the elder. The dray lizards
munched contentedly on rich riverbank growth.
The old otter put aside his fishing pole and studied them.
His short whistle indicated he didn't think much of either man
or turtle, unseen mental talents notwithstanding.
"Sorcerers ye may be, but the passage through the Teeth
by way of the river is little but a legend. Ye can travel b
legend only in dreams. Which is all that's likely to be left of
ye if ye persist in this folly. Sixty years I've lived on the
banks of the Sloomaz-ayor-le-Weentli." He gestured fondly
at the flowing water behind him. "Never have I heard tell of
anyone fool enough to try and go into the mountains by way
of it."
"Sounds convincin' enough for me, 'e does." Mudge
leaned out of the wagon and spoke brightly. "That settles
that: time to turn about for 'ome."
Ion-Tom looked over his shoulder at the green-capped face
"That does not settle it."
72
THE HOUR Or THE GATE
Mudge shrugged cheerfully. "Can't biff a bloke for tryin',
mate. I ought t' know better, I knows it, but somethin' in me
insists on tryin' t' fight insanity in the ranks."
"Ya ought ta have more faith in da master." Pog fluttered
above the wagon and chided the otter. "Ya oughta believe in
him and his abilities and great talents." He drifted lower
above Mudge and whispered. "Frankly, we all been candi-
dates for da fertilizer pile since we started on dis half-assed
trek, but if da boss tinks we gots to go on, we don't got much
choice. Don't make him mad, chum."
But Jon-Tom had overheard. He walked back to stand next
to the wagon. "Clothahump knows what he's doing. I'm sure
if things turned suicidal he'd listen to reason."
"Ya tink dat, does ya?" Pog's small sharp teeth flashed as
he hovered in front of Jon-Tom. One wing pointed toward the
turtle, who was still conversing with the old otter.
"Da boss has kept Mudge from runnin' off and abandonin'
dis trip wid t'reats. What makes ya tink he'd be more polite
where you're concerned?"
"He owes me a debt," said Jon-Tom. "If I insisted on
remaining behind, I don't think he'd try to coerce me."
Pog laughed, whirled around in black circles. "Dat's what
you tink! Ya may be a spellsinger, Jon-Tom-mans, but you're
as naive as a baby's belly!' He rose and skimmed off over
the river, hunting for insects and small flying lizards.
"Is that your opinion too, Mudge? Do you think Clothahump
would keep me from leaving if that's what I wanted?"
"I wouldn't 'ave 'alf a notion, mate. But since you say you
want to keep on with this madness, there ain't no point in
arguin' it, is there?" He retreated back inside the wagon,
leaving Jon-Tom to turn and walk slowly back down to the
riverbank. Try as he would to shove the thought aside, it
continued to nag him. He looked a little differently at
73
Alan Dean Foster
"There be only one way ye might get even partway s
through," continued the old otter, "and if yer lucky, out
again alive. That's to have a damn good boatman. Qne who
knows how to maneuver on the Second river. That's the only
way ye'll even get inside the mountain."
"Can you recommend such an individual?" asked
Clothahump.
"Oh, I know of several good boatfolk," the oldster boasted.
He turned, spat something brown and viscous into the water,
then looked from the turtle to Jon-Tom. "Trouble for ye is
that ain't none of 'em idiots. And that's going to be as
important a qualification as any kind of river skill, because
only an idiot's going to try and take ye where ye wants to
go!"
"We have no need of your sarcasm, young fellow," said
Clothahump impatiently, "only of your advice. If you would
rather not give us the benefit of your knowledge, then we will
do our best to find it elsewhere."
"All right, all right. Hang onto ye shell, ye great stuffed
diviner of catastrophes!
"There's one, just one, who might be willing to help ye
out. He's just fool enough to try it and just damnblast good
enough to bring it off. Whether ye can talk him into doin' so
is something else again." He gestured to his left.
"Half a league farther on you'll find that the riverbank
rises steeplike. S
till farther you'll eventual come across sev-
eral large oaks overlooking a notch or drop in the cliffs. He's
got his place down there. Goes by the name of Bribbens
Oxiey."
"Thank you for your help," said Clothahump.
"Would it help if we mentioned your name to him?"
Jon-Tom wondered.
The otter laughed, his whistles skipping across the water.
"Hai, man, the only place me name would help you is in the
74
THE HOUR OF THE GATS
better whorehouses in Wottletowne, and that's not where ye
are going!"
Clothahump reached into one of his plastron compart-
ments, withdrew a small silver coin, and offered it to the
otter. The oldster stepped away, waving his hands.
"No, no, not for me, friend! I take no payment for
assisting the doomed." He gathered up his pole and gear and
ambled crookedly off upstream.
"Nice of him to give us that name," said Jon-Tom,
watching the other depart. "Since he wouldn't take the
money, why didn't we try to help his arthritis?"
"Arth.. .his joint-freezes, you mean, boy?" Clothahump
adjusted his spectacles. "It is a long spell and requires time
we do not have." He turned resolutely toward the wagon.
Jon-Tom continued to stand there, watching the crippled
otter make his loping way eastward. "But he was so helpful."
"We do not know that yet," the turtle insisted. "I was
willing to chance a little silver on it, but not a major medical
spell. He could simply have told us his stories to impress us,
and the name to get rid of us."
"Awfully cynical, aren't you?"
Clothahump gazed up at him as they both scrambled into
the wagon. "My boy, the first hundred years Of life teaches
you that no one is inherently good. The next fifty tells you
that no one is inherently bad, but is shaped by his surround-
ings. And after two hundred years... give me a hand there,
that's a good boy." Jon-Tom helped lug the bulky body over
the wooden rail and into the wagon.
"After two hundred years, you leam that nothing is pre-
dictable save that the universe is full of illusions. If the
cosmos withholds and distorts its truths, why should we
expect less of such pitifully minute components of it as that
otter... or you, or me?"
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Alan Dean Foster
Jon-Tom was left to ponder that as the wagon once more
rolled noisily westward.
Everyone hoped the oldster's recommendation was sounder