to the east.
"Into the Teeth." He fixed a bulbous eye on Jen-Tom.
"You'll have no need for money in there, nor on the other
side, if there is one. My offspring will find it here if I don't
come back, and it will do them more good than the dead."
84
THE HOUR OF Tm GATE
Humming to himself, he turned and padded back toward his
house.
They slept in the wagon again that night. As Bribbens
formally explained, their fee included only his services and
transport and did not extend to the use of his home.
But the following morning he was up before the sun and
was ready to depart before they'd hardly awakened. "I like to
get an early start," he explained as they gathered themselves
for the journey. "I give value for money. You pay for a day's
travel, you get a day's travel."
Caz adjusted his monocle. "Reasonable enough, consider-
ing that we've given a month's pay for every day we're likely
to travel."
Bribbens looked unperturbed. "I once saw a rabbit who'd
had all his fur shaved off. He was a mighty funny-looking
critter."
"And I," countered Caz with equal aplomb, "once saw a
ftog whose mouth was too big for his head. He experienced a
terrible accident."
"What kind of accident?" inquired Bribbens, unimpressed.
"Foot-in-mouth. Worst case I ever saw. It turned out to be
fatal."
"Progs aren't subject to hoof-in-mouth."
The rabbit smiled tolerantly. "My foot in his mouth."
The two held their stares another moment. Then Bribbens
smiled, an expression particularly suited to frogs.
"I've seen it happen to creatures other than my own kind,
three-eyes."
Caz grinned back. "It's common enough, I suppose. And I
see better out of one eye than most people do out of two."
"See your way to moving a little faster, then. We can't
sleep here all day." The boatman ambled off.
Talea was leaning out of the wagon, brushing sleepily at
reluctant curls tight as steel springs.
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Alan Dean Foster
"Since you layabouts aren't ready yet, I'm going to take
the time to secure my team and wagon and lay out fodder for
them," said the frog.
"Possessive little bugger, ain't 'e?" Mudge commented.
"It's his wagon and team now, Mudge." Jon-Tom carefully
slipped his staff into the loops crossing his back beneath the
flashing emerald cape. "They're in his care. Just like we
are."
When they were all assembled on the boat and had tied
down their packs and supplies, Bribbens loosed the ropes,
neatly coiled them in place, and leaned on the long steering
oar. The boat slid out into the river. Pog shifted his grip on
the spreaders high up on the mast and watched as silver sky
raced past blue ground.
Before very long the current caught them. The cove with
its mud-and-thatch house vanished behind. Ahead lay a gray-
brown wall of granite and ice; home to arboreal carnivores,
undisciplined winds, and racing cloud-crowns.
Jon-Tom lay down on the edge of the craft and let a hand
trail lazily in the water. It was difficult to think of the journey
they'd embarked upon as threatening. The water was warmed
from its long journey down from distant Kreshfarm-in-the-
Geegs. The sun often snuck clear of obstructing clouds to lie
pleasantly on one's face. And there seemed no chance of rain
until the night.
"Three days to get to the base of the mountains, you
said?"
"That's right, man," Bribbens replied. The boatman did
not look at Jon-Tom when he spoke. His right arm was curled
around the shaft of the steering oar, and his eyes were on the
river ahead. He sat in a chair built onto the railing at the
craft's stem. A long, thin curved pipe dangled from thick
lips. River breeze carried the thin smoke from its small white
bowl up into the sky.
86
THE HOUR Of THE GATE
"How far into the mountains does the river go?" Flor was
full of expectation and excitement.
"Nobody knows," said Bribbens. "Leagues, maybe weeks
worth. Maybe only a few hours."
"Where does it end, do you suppose? In an underground
lake?"
"Helldrink," said the boatman.
"And what's Helldrink, Senor Ranar'
"A rumor. A story. An amalgam of all the fears of every
creature that's ever navigated on the waters in times of
trouble, during bad storms or on leaking ships, in foul
harbors or under the lash of a drunken captain. I've spent my
life on me water and in it. It would be worth the trip to me if
we should find it, even should it mean my death. It's where
all true sailors should end up."
"Does that mean we're likely to get a refund?" inquired
Caz.
The boatman laughed. "You're a sharp fellow, aren't you,
rabbit? I hope if we find it you'll still be able to joke."
"There should be no difficulty," said Clothahump. "I, too,
have heard legends of Helldrink. They say that you know it is
there before you encounter it. All you need do is deposit us
safely clear of it and, we will continue our journey on foot.
You may proceed to your sailor's discovery however you
wish."
"Sounds like a fine scenario, sir," the boatman agreed.
"Assuming I can make a landing somewhere safe, if there is a
safe landing. Otherwise you may have to accompany me on
my discovery."
"So you're risking your. life to leam the truth about this
legend?" asked Flor.
"No, woman. I'm risking my life for a hundred pieces of
gold. And a wagon and team. I'm risking my life for
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Alan Dean Foster
twenty-two offspring. I'm risking my life because I never
turned down a job in my life. Without my reputation, I'm
nothing. I had to take your offer, you see."
He adjusted the steering oar a little to port. The boat
changed its heading slightly and moved still further into the
center of the stream.
"Money and pride," she said. "That's hardly worth risking
your life for."
"Can you think of any better reason, then?"
"You bet I can, Rana. One a hell of a lot less brazen than
yours." She proceeded to explain the impetus for their jour-
ney. Bribbens was not to be recruited.
"I prefer money, thank you."
It was a good thing Falameezar was no longer with them,
Jen-Tom thought. He and their boatman were at opposite ends
of the political spectrum. Of course, with Falameezar, they
would not have required Bribbens' services. He was surprised
to discover that despite the archaic, inflexible political philos-
ophy, he still missed the dragon.
"Young female," Bribbens said finally, "you have your
romantic ideas and I've got mine. I'm helping you to satisfy
your needs and that's all you'll get fr
om me. Now shut up. I
dislike noisy chatter, especially from romantic females."
"Oh you do, do you?" Ror started to get to her feet.
"How would you like—"
The frog jerked a webbed hand toward the southern shore.
"It's not too far to the bank, and you look like a pretty good
swimmer, for a human. I think you can make it without any
trouble."
Flor started to finish her comment, got the point, and
resumed her seat near the craft's bow. She was fuming, but
sensible. It was Bribbens' game and they had to play with his
equipment, according to his rules. But that didn't mean she
had to like it.
88
THE HOUR OF THE GATE
The boatman puffed contentedly on his pipe. "Interesting
group of passengers, more so than my usual." He tapped out
the dottle on the deck, locked the steering oar in position, and
commenced repacking his pipe. "Wonder to me you haven't
killed one another before now."
It was odd, Jon-Tom mused as they drifted onward, to be
moving downstream and yet toward mountains. Rivers ran out
of hills. Perhaps the Sloomaz-ayor-le-WeentU dropped into an
as yet unseen canyon. If so, they would have a spectacular
journey through the mountains.
Occasionally they had to set up the canvas roofing that
attached to the railings to keep off the nightly rain. At such
times Bribbens would fix the oar and curve them to a safe
landing onshore. They would wait out the night there, rain-
drops pelting the low ceiling, until the sun rose and pushed
aside the clouds. Then it was on once more, borne swiftly but
smoothly in the gentle grip of the river.
Jon-Tom did not fully appreciate the height of Zaryt's
Teeth until the third day. They entered me first foothills that
morning. The river cut its way insistently through the green-
cloaked, rolling mounds. Compared to the nearing moun-
tains, the massive hillocks were merely bruises on the earth.
Here and there great lumps of granite protruded through the
brush and topsoil. They reminded Jon-Tom of the fingertips
of long-buried giants and brought back to him the legends of
these mountains. While not degenerating into rapids, the river
nonetheless increased its pace, as if anxious to carry those
traveling upon it to some unexpected destination.
Several days passed during which they encountered nothing
suggestive of habitation. The hills swelled around them,
becoming rockier and more barren. Even wildlife hereabouts
was scarce.
Once they did drift past a populated beach. A herd of
unicorns was backed up there against the water. Stallions and
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Alan Dean Foster
marcs formed a semicircle with the water at their backs
protecting the colts, which snorted and neighed nervously.
Pacing confusedly before the herd's defensive posture wa
a pack of perhaps a dozen lion-sized lizards. They were sleei
as whippets and their red and white scales gleamed in th
sunlight.
As the travelers cruised past, one of the lizards sprang
trying to leap over the adults and break the semicircle
Instead, he landed on the two-foot-long, gnarly hom of one
of the stallions.
A horrible hissing crackled like fresh foil through the day
and blood fountained in all directions, splattering colts and
killer alike. Bending his neck, the unicorn used both forehooves
to shove the contorted body of the dying carnivore oflf his
head.
The boat drifted around a bend, its passengers ignorant of
the eventual outcome of the war. Blood from the impaled
predator flowed into the river. The red stain mindlessly
stalked the retreating craft....
90
VI
It was the following afternoon, when they rounded a benc
in the river, that Jon-Tom thought would surely be their last.
The foothills had grown steadily steeper around them. They
were impressive, but nonexistent compared to the sheer
precipices that suddenly rose like a wall directly ahead
Clouds veiled their summits, parting only intermittently to
reveal shining white caps at the higher elevations; snow and
ice that never melted. The mottled stalks of conifers looked
like twigs where they marched up into the mists.
It was a seamless gray cliff which rose up unbroken ahead
of the raft. Solid old granite, impassable and cold.
Bribbens was neither surprised nor perturbed by this im-
passable barrier. Leaning hard on the sweep, he turned the
boat to port. At first Jon-Tom thought they would simply
! ground on me rocks lining the shore, but when they rounded
a massive, sharp boulder he saw the tiny beach their boatman
was aiming for.
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Alan Dean Foster
It was a dry notch cut into the fringe of the mountain.
Warm water slapped against his boots as the boat's passen-
gers scrambled to pull it onto the sand. Driftwood mixed with
the blackened remnants of many camp fires. The little cove
was the last landing point on the river.
On the visible river, anyway.
The wind tumbled and rolled down the sheer cliffs. It
seemed to be saying, "Go back, fools! There is nothing
beyond here but rock and death. Go back!" and a sudden
gust would send Talea or Mudge stumbling westward as the
wind tried to urge their retreat.
Jon-Tom waded out into the river until the water lapped at
his boot tops. Leaning around a large, slick rock, he was able
to see why Bribbens had rowed them into the protected cove.
Several hundred yards downstream, downstream was no
more. An incessant crackling and grinding came from the
river's end. An immense jam of logs and branches, bones,
and other debris boiled like clotted pudding against the gray
face of the mountain. Foam thundered on rock and wood like
cold lava.
He couldn't see where the water vanished into the moun-
tainside because of the obstructing flotsam, but from time to
time a log or branch would be sucked beneath the brow of the
cliff, presumably into the cavern beyond. The thickness of the
jam suggested that the cave opening into the mountain couldn't
be more than a few inches above the wateriine. If it were
higher, he would have been able to see it as a dark stain on
the granite, and if lower, the river would have backed up and
drowned out, among other things, me cove they were beached
upon.
But the opening must be quite deep, because the river had
narrowed until it was no more than thirty yards wide where it
ground against the mountainside, and the current was no
swifter than usual.
92
THE HOUR OF THE GATS,
"What do we do now?" Flor had waded out to stand next
to him. She watched as logs several yards thick spun and
bounced off the rock. They must have weighed thousands of
pounds and were waterlogged as well.
"There's no way we can move any of that s
tuff upstream
against the current."
"It doesn't matter," he told her. "Even if Clothahump
could magic them aside, the opening's still much too low to
let the boat through."
"So it seems." Bribbens stood on the sand behind them.
He was unloading supplies from the boat. "But we're not
going in that way. That is, we are, but we're not."
"I don't follow you," said Jon-Tom.
"You will. You're paying to." He grinned hugely. "Why
do you think the Sloomaz-ayor-le-WeentU is called also The
Double River, The River of Twos?"
"I don't know." Jon-Tom was irritated at his ignorance. "I
thought it forked somewhere upstream. It doesn't tell me how
we're going to get through there," and he pointed at the
churning, rumbling mass of jackstraw debris.
"It does, if you know."
"So what do we do first?" he said, tired of riddles.
"First we take anything that'll float off the boat," was the
boatman's order.
"And then."
"And then we pole her out into the middle of the current,
open her stoppers, and sink her. After we've anchored her
securely, of course."
Jon-Tom started to say something, thought better of it.
Since the frog's statement was absurd and since he was
clearly not an idiot, then it must follow that he knew some-
thing Jon-Tom did not. When confronted by an inexplicable
claim, he'd been taught, it was better not to debate until the
supporting evidence was in.
"I still don't understand," said Flor confusedly.
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Alan Dean Foster
"You will," Bribbens assured her. "By the way, can you
both swim?"
"Fairly well," said Jon-Tom.
"I don't drown," was Hor's appraisal.
"Good. I hope the other human is likewise trained.
"For the moment you can't do anything except help with
the unloading. Then I suggest you relax and watch."
When the last buoyant object had been removed from the
boat, they took the frog at his word and settled down on the
beach to observe.
Bribbens guided the little vessel out into the river. On
locating a place that suited him (but that looked no different
from anywhere else to Jon-Tom and Hor) he tossed over bow
and stem anchors. Sunlight glistened off the boatman's now
bare green and black back and off the smooth fur of the nude
otter standing next to him.
Both watched as the anchors descended. The boat slowly
swung around before halting about a dozen yards farther