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"After two hundred years, you leam that nothing is pre-
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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?"
75
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 than his estimate of
distance, for it took them two full days of traveling before they encountered
three massive oaks domi-
nating a low dip in the riverbank. While still a respectable width, the river
had narrowed between the higher banks and ran with more power, more
confidence, and occasional flecks of foam.
Still, it didn't appear particularly dangerous or hard to navigate to Jon-Tom.
He wondered at the need for a guide.
The river was far more gentle than the rapids they had passed
(admittedly with Falameezar's muscle) on the journey to
Polastrindu.
The path that wound its careful way down to the shore was narrow and steep.
The lizards balked at it. They had to be whipped and cajoled downward, their
claws shoving at the dirt as they tried to move backward instead of down the
slope. Gravel and rocks slid over the side of the path. Once they nearly had a
wheel slip over the edge, threatening to plunge wagon and lizards and all
ass-over-heels into the tiny chasm. Verbally and physically, however, they
succeeded in eventually getting the lizards to the bottom.
Reeds and ferns dominated the little cove in which they found themselves. To
the left, hunkered up tight against the cliffs, they found a single low
building. It was not much bigger than a shack. A few small circular windows
winked like eyes as they approached it, peering out beneath brows of adobe and
thatching. Smoke curled lazily from the brown and gray rock chimney made of
rounded river stones.
What attracted their attention the most was the boat. It was moored in the
shallows. Water lapped gently at its flanks. A
well-tumed railing ran around the deck, and there was no central cabin.
76
THE HOUR OF THE GATE
A heavy steering oar bobbed at the stem. There was also a single mast from
which a fore-rigged sail hung limp and tired, loosely draped across the boom.
"I hope our guide is as tough as his boat looks to be,"
said Talea as they mounted the covered porch fronting the house.
"Only one way to find out." Jon-Tom ducked beneath the porch roof. The door
set in the front of the building was cut from aged cypress. There was no
window or peephole set into it.
Pog found a comfortable cross-beam, hung head down from it, and let out a
relieved sigh. "Not fancy, maybe, but a peaceful place ta live. I've always
liked rivers."
"How can you like anything?" Talea chided him as they inspected the house.
"You see everything upside down."
"Lizard crap," said the bat with a grunt. "You're da ones dat sees everyting
upside down."
Clothahump knocked on the door. There was no response.
He rapped again, harder. Still nothing, so he tried the handle.
"Locked," he said curtly. "I could spell it open easily enough, but that would
mean naught if the owner is not present." He sounded concerned. "Could he
perhaps be off on business with a second boat?"
"If so," Jon-Tom started to say, "it wouldn't hurt us to have a short rest. We
could wait until "
The door opened inward abruptly. The frog that confronted them stood just over
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five feet tall, slightly less than Talea, a touch more than Mudge. Tight
snakeskin shorts stopped just above his knees. The long fringework that lined
its hem fell almost to his ankles. It swayed slightly as he stood inspecting
them.
The shorts were matched by a fringed vest of similar material. Beneath it he
wore a leathern shut that ended above his elbows. Fringe reached from there to
his wrists. He wore
77
Alan Dean Foster
no hat, but a single necklace made from the vertebrae of some large fish
formed a white collar around his green-and-
yellow-spotted neck.
His ventral side was a pale blue that shaded to pink at the pulsing throat.
The rest of his body was dark green marked with yellow and black spots.
Compared to, say, Mudge or
Clothahump, the coloration was somewhat overwhelming. He would be difficult to
lose sight of, even on a dark day.
Examining them one at a time, the frog surveyed his visitors. He thoroughly
sized up every member of the group, not missing Pog where he hung from the
rafter. The bat's head had swiveled around to stare curiously at the boatman.
The frog blinked, spoke in a low monotone distinguished by its lack of
inflection, friendly or otherwise.
"Cash or credit?"
"Cash," replied Clothahump. "Assuming that we can work out an agreement to our
mutual satisfaction."
"Mutual my ass," said the frog evenly. "I'm the one who has to be satisfied."
When Clothahump offered no rebuttal, the boatman expressionlessly stepped back
inside. "Come on in, then. No point in standing out in the damp. Sick custom-
ers make lousy passengers."
They filed in, Jon-Tom and Hor electing to take seats on the floor rather than
risk collision with the low, thick-beamed ceiling, hi addition, the few chairs
looked too rickety to support much weight.
The frog moved to a large iron stove set against a back wall. A large kettle
simmered musically on the hot metal. He removed the cover, stirred the
contents a few times, then sampled it with a large wooden ladle. The odor was
foul.
Taking a couple of large wooden shakers from a nearby wall shelf, he dumped
some of their powdered contents into the kettle, stirred the liquid a little
more, and replaced the iron cover, apparently satisfied.
78
THE HOUR OF THE GATES
Then he sauntered back to the thick wooden table in the center of the room.
Boating equipment, hooks, ropes, woodworker's tools, braces and pegs and
hammers lined the other two walls. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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