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turn of events began. We can return there, land, or use this craft, provided
the wind will return, to take us back to the mouth of the Tailaroam and
civilization."
"I'm tempted, guv, but 'e'll never stand for it." He nodded back to where
Jon-Tom lay sprawled on his back on the deck, alternately laughing and
hiccuping at the fog.
"How can he object to stop us?" wondered Jalwar. "He has the gift, but no
control over it."
"That may be, guv. I'm sure as 'ell no expert on spellsingin', but this I do
know. 'E's me friend, and I
promised 'im that I'd see 'im through this journey to its end, no matter wot
'appens."
Besides which, the otter reminded himself, if they returned without the
medicine, there would be no rich reward from a grateful Clothahump. Mudge had
endured too much already to throw that promise away now.
"But what else can we do?" Jalwar moaned. "None of us is a wizard or sorcerer.
We cannot cure his odd condition, because it is the result of his own
spellsinging."
"Maybe it'll cure itself." Mudge tried to sound optimis-
tic. He watched sadly as Jon-Tom rolled over on the center cabin and tried to
puke again. "I feel sorry for 'im. 'Tis clear 'e ain't used to liquorish
effects." As if to reinforce the otter's observation, Jon-Tom rolled over
again and fell off the cabin, nearly knocking himself out on the deck.
Lifting himself to a sitting position, he burst out laughing.
He was the only one on the boat who found the situation amusing.
Mudge shook his head. "Bleedin' pitiful."
"Yes, it is sad," Jalwar agreed.
96
Alan Dean Foster
"Cor, but not the way you think it is, mate. 'Ere 'e is, sufferin' from one o'
the finest binges I've ever seen anybody on, and 'e ain't even had the
pleasure o' drinkin'
the booze. Truly pitiful." A glance downward showed sand looming near.
"Couple o' degrees to starboard, luv!" he called stemward.
"Ah heah y'all." Roseroar adjusted the boat's heading.
The sandy bottom fell away once again.
"It'll wear off," the otter mumbled. "It 'as to. Ain't nobody can stay drunk
this long no matter 'ow strong a spell's been laid on 'is belly. I wonder when
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'e did it?"
"The same tune he did everything else," Jalwar explained.
"Don't you remember the song?"
"You mean that part about it bein' 'the worst trip I've ever been on'?"
"Not just that. Remember that he made the tigress captain because she was the
best sailor among us? That would leave him as next in command, would it not?"
"Beats me, mate. I'm not much on ships and their lore."
"He reduced himself to first mate," Jalwar said posi-
tively. "That was in the song, too. A line that went something like "The first
mate, he got drunk.' "
"Aye, now I recall." The otter nodded toward the helpless spellsinger, who
remained enraptured by a hyste-
ria perceptible only to himself. "So 'e spellsung 'imself into this condition
without even bein' aware o1 doin' it."
"I fear that is the case."
"Downright pitiful. Why couldn't 'e 'ave made me first mate? I'd 'andle a long
drunk like this ten times better than
'e would. 'E's got to come out of it sometime."
"I hope so," said Jalwar. He glanced at the sky.
"Perhaps we will lose this infernal fog, anyway. Then we might pick up a wind
enabling us to turn back."
"Now, I told you, guv," Mudge began, only to be interrupted by a shout.
What stunned him to silence, however, was not the fact
THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
97
of the shout but its origin. It came from the water off to starboard.
It was repeated. "Ahoy, there! You on the sloop! What's happenin'!"
"What's happenin'?" Roseroar frowned, tried to see into the fog. "Jon-Tom,
wake up!" The sails continued to luff against the mainmast.
"Huh? Wash?" Jon-Tom laughed one more time, then struggled to stand up.
"Ahoy, aboard the sloop!" A new voice this time, female.
"Wash... whosh that?" He stumbled around the center
cabin and tried to squint into the fog. Neither his eyesight nor his brain was
functioning at optimum efficiency at the moment.
A second boat materialized out of the mist. It was a low-
slung outboard with a pearlescent fiberglass body. Three ...
no, four people lounged in the vinyl seats. Two couples in their twenties, all
human, all normal size.
"What's happenin', John B.I" asked the young man standing behind the wheel. He
didn't look too steady on his feet himself. A cooler sat between the front
seats, full of ice and aluminum cans. The cans had names like Coors and Lone
Star on them.
Jon-Tom swayed. He was hallucinating, the next logical step in his mental
disintegration. He leaned over the rail and tried to focus his remaining
consciousness on the funny cigarette the couple in the front of the boat were
passing back and forth.The other pair were exchanging hits on a glass pipe.
The big outboard was idling noisily. One girl leaned over the side to clean
her Foster Grants in the ocean. Next to the beer cooler was a picnic basket. A
big open bag of pretzels sat on top. The twisted, skinny kind that tasted like
pure fried salt. Next to the bag was a two-pound tin of
Planter's Redskin Peanuts, and several brightly colored tropical fruits.
98
Alan Dean Poster
THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
99
He tried to will himself sober. If anything could have cleared his mind, it
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should have been the sight of the boat and its occupants. But the
uncontrollable power of his own spellsinging held true. Despite everything he
tried, the self-declared first mate still stayed drunk. He swallowed the words
on his tongue and tried a second time.
"Who... who are you?"
"I'm Charlie MacReady," said the boat's driver cheeri-
ly, through a cannabis-induced fog of his own. He smiled broadly, leaned down
to speak to his girlfriend. "Dig that getup that guy's got on. Must've been a
helluva party!"
Jon-Tom briefly considered his iridescent lizard-skin cape, his indigo shut,
and the rest of his attire. Subdued clothing... for Clothahump's world.
The girl in the front was having a tough time with her
sunshades. Maybe she didn't realize that the glasses were clean and that it
was her eyes that needed washing out.
She leaned over again and nearly tumbled into the water.
Her boyfriend grabbed the strap of her bikini top and pulled hard enough to
hold her in the boat. Unfortunately, it was also hard enough to compress
certain sensitive parts of her anatomy. She whirled to swing at him, missed
badly thanks to the effects of what the foursome had been smoking all morning.
For some unknown reason this started her giggling uncontrollably.
Jon-Tom wasn't laughing anymore. He was battling his own sozzled thoughts and
magically contaminated blood-
stream.
"Who are you people?"
"I told you." The boat's driver spoke with pot-induced ponderousness.
"MacReady's the name. Charles MacReady.
I am a stockbroker from Manhattan. Merrill Lynching.
You know, the bull?" He rested one hand on the shoulder of the suddenly
contemplative woman seated next to him.
She appeared fascinated by the sheen of her nail polish.
"This is Buffy." He nodded toward the front of the boat. "The two kids up
front are Steve and Mary-Ann.
Steve works in my office. Don't you, Steve?" Steve didn't reply. He and
Mary-Ann were giggling in tandem now.
The driver turned back to Jon-Tom. "Who are you?"
"One hell of a good question," Jon-Tom replied thickly.
He glanced down at his outrageous costume. Is this what happens when you get
the DTs? he wondered. Somehow he'd always imagined having the DTs would
involve stronger hallucinations than a quartet of happily stoned vacationers
loaded down with pot and pretzels.
"My name... my name..." For one terrible instant there was a soft, puffy blank
in his mind where his name belonged. The kind of disorientation one encounters
in a cheap house of mirrors at the state fair, where you have to feel your way [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]