As the Shop of the Aether and Neither receded behind them, Jon-Tom gradually began to emerge from the mental miasma into which he’d plunged both himself and Harun al-Roojinn. Fingers moved less steadily over the duar’s strings, and his voice fell to a whisper. He blinked.
“ ‘E’s comin’ round,” Mudge observed.
“It’s about time,” said Folly. “What did he do to himself?”
“Some wondrous magic,” muttered Drom. “Some powerful otherworldly conjuration.”
Mudge snorted and grinned. “Right, mate. What ‘e did to the monster was waste ‘im. Unfortunately, ‘e did ‘imself right proud in the process.” Jon-Tom’s hand went to his head. “Ooooo.” Shifting outlines resolved themselves into, the running figure of Mudge.
“ ‘Angover, mate?”
“No. No, I feel okay.” He looked up suddenly, back toward the smoking mountain. “Al-Roojinn?”
“Zonked, skunked, blown-away. A fine a piece o’ spellsingin’ as was ever done, mate.”
“It was the song,” Jon-Tom murmured dazedly. “A good song. A special song. Jimi’s best. If anything could dazzle a djinn, I knew it would be that. You can put me down now, Roseroar.” The tigress set him down gently.
“Come on, mate. We’d best keep movin’ fast before your spellsong wears off.”
“It’s all right, I think.” He looked back through the forest toward the mountain. “It’s not a restraining song. It’s a happy song, a relaxing song. Al-Roojinn didn’t seem either happy or relaxed. Maybe he’s happy now.”
They followed the winding trail back toward Crancularn and discovered a ghost town populated by slow-moving, nebulous inhabitants who smiled wickedly at them, grinning wraiths that floated in and out of reality. “It’s there but some don’t see it,” Drom had said. Now Jon-Tom understood the unicorn’s meaning. The real Crancularn was as insubstantial as smoke, as solid as a dream.
They forced themselves not to run as they left the town behind, heading for the familiar woods and the long walk back to far-distant Lynchbany. Somewhere off to the right came the grind of the ATC, but this time the helpful rabbit, be he real or wraith, did not put in an appearance.
Once Jon-Tom glanced back to reassure himself that he’d actually been in Crancularn, but instead of a crumbling old town, he thought he saw a vast bubbling cauldron alive with dancing, laughing demons. He shuddered and didn’t look back again.
By evening they were all too exhausted to care if Al-Roojinn and a dozen vengeful cousins were hot on their trail or not. Mudge and Roseroar built a fire while the others collapsed.
“I think we’re safe now,” Jon-Tom told them. He ran both hands through his long hair, suddenly sat up sharply.
“The medicine! What about the—!”
“Easy, mate.” Mudge extracted the container from a pocket. “ ‘Ere she be, nice and tidy.”
Jon-Tom examined the bottle. It was such a small thing on which to have expended so much effort, barely an inch high and half again as wide. It was fashioned of plain white plastic with a screw-on cap of unfamiliar design.
“I wonder what it is.” He started to unscrew the top.
“Just a minim, mate,” said Mudge sharply, nodding at the container. “Do you think that’s wise? I know you’re a spellsinger and all that, but maybe there’s a special reason for that little bottle bein’ tight-sealed the way it is.”
“Any container of medicine would be sealed,” Jon-Tom responded. “If there was any danger, Clothahump would have warned me not to open it.” Another twist and the cap was off, rendering further argument futile.
He stared at the contents, then held the bottle under his nose and sniffed.
“Well,” asked Drom curiously, “do you have any idea what it is?”
Jon-Tom ignored the unicorn. Frowning, he turned the bottle upside down and dumped one of several tablets into his palm. He eyed it uncertainly, and before anyone could stop him, licked it. He sat and smacked his lips thoughtfully.
Abruptly his face contorted and his expression underwent a horrible, dramatic change. His eyes bugged and a hateful grimace twisted his mouth. As he rose his hands were trembling visibly and he clutched the bottle so hard his fingers whitened.
“It’s got him!” Folly stumbled back toward the bushes.
“Something’s got him!”
“Roseroar!” Mudge shouted. “Get ‘im down! I’ll find some vines to tie ‘im with!” He rushed toward the trees.
“No,” Jon-Tom growled tightly. “No.” His face fell as he stared at the bottle. Then he drew back his hand and made as if to fling the plastic container and its priceless contents into the deep woods. At the last instant he stopped himself. Now he was smiling malevolently at the tablet in his hand.
“No. We’re going to take it back. Take it back so that Clothahump can see it. Can see what we crossed half a world and nearly died a dozen times to bring him.” He stared at his uneasy companions. “This is the medicine.
This will cure him. I’m sure it will. Then, when the pain has left his body and he is whole and healthy again, I’ll strangle him with my bare hands!”
“Ah don’t understand yo, Jon-Tom. What’s wrong if that’s the right medicine?”
“What’s wrong? I’ll tell you what’s wrong.” He shook the bottle at her. “It’s acetylsalicylic acid, that’s what’s wrong!” Suddenly the anger went out of him, and he sat back down heavily on a fallen tree. “Why didn’t I think that might be it? Why?”
Mudge fought to pronounce the peculiar, otherworldly word, failed miserably. “You mean you know wot the bloody stuff is?”
“Know it?” Jon-Tom lifted tired eyes to the otter. “You remember when I arrived in this world, Mudge?”
“Now, that would be a ‘ard day to forget, mate. I nearly spilled your guts all over a field o’ flowers.”
“Do you remember what I was wearing?”
Mudge’s face screwed up in remembrance. “That funny tight shirt and them odd pants.”
“Jeans, Mudge, jeans. I had a few things with me when Clothahump accidently brought me over. My watch, which doesn’t work anymore because the batteries are dead.”
“Spell’s worn out, you mean.”
“Let’s don’t get into that now, okay? My watch, a lighter, a few keys in a small metal box, and another small box about this big.” He traced an outline in the air in front of him.
“The second box held a few little items I always carried with me for unexpected emergencies. Some Pepto-Bismol tablets for an upset stomach, a couple of Band-Aids, a few blue tablets whose purpose we won’t discuss in mixed company, and some white tablets. Do you remember the white tablets, Mudge?”
The otter shook his head. “I wouldn’t ‘ave a looksee through your personal things, mate.” Besides, he’d been interrupted before he could get the two boxes opened.
“Those tablets were just like these, Mudge. Just like these.” He stared dumbly at the bottle he held. “Acetylsalicylic acid. Aspirin, plain old ordinary everyday aspirin.”
“Ah guess it ain’t so ordinary hereabouts,” said Roseroar.
“Now, mate,” said Mudge soothingly, “ ‘is wizardship couldn’t ‘ave known you ‘ad some in your back pocket all along, now could ‘e? It were a sad mistake, but an ‘onest one.”
“You think so? Clothahump knows everything.”
“Then why send us across ‘alf the world to find somethin’ ‘e already ‘ad in ‘is ‘ouse?”
“To test me. To test my loyalty. He’s grooming me to take his place someday if he can’t send me home, and he has to make sure I’m up to the reputation he’s going to leave behind. So he keeps testing me.”
“Are you tellin’ me, mate,” muttered Mudge carefully, “that this ‘ole damn dangerous trip was unnecessary from the beginnin’? That this ‘ere glorious quest could’ve been left undone and we could’ve stayed comfy an’ warm back in the Bellwoods, doin’ civilized work like gettin’ laid an’ drunk?”
Jon-T
om nodded sadly. “I’m afraid so.”
Mudge’s reaction was not what Jon-Tom expected. He anticipated a replay of his own sudden fury, at least.
Instead, the otter clasped his hands to his belly, bent over, and fell to the ground, where he commenced to roll wildly about while laughing uncontrollably. A moment later Drom’s own amused, high-pitched whinny filled the woods, while Roseroar was unable to restrain her own more dignified but just as heartfelt hysteria.
“What are you laughing about? You idiots, we nearly got killed half a dozen times on this journey! So what are you laughing about?” For some reason this only made his companions laugh all the harder.
Except for one. Soft hands were around his neck and still softer flesh in his lap as Folly sat down on his thighs.
“I understand, Jon-Tom. I feel sorry for you. I’ll always understand and I’ll never laugh at you.”
He struggled to squirm free of her grasp. This was difficult since she was seated squarely in his lap and had locked her hands tightly behind his neck.
“Folly,” he said as he wrestled with her, “I’ve told you before that there can’t be anything between us! For one thing, I already have a lady, and for another, you’re too young.”
She grinned winsomely. “But she’s half a world away from here, and I’m getting older every day. If you’ll give me half a chance, I’ll catch up to you.” By now the unicom was lying on his back kicking weakly at the air, and Mudge was laughing hard enough to cry. Jon-Tom fought to free himself and failed each time he tried, because his hands kept contacting disconcerting objects.
Mudge looked up at his friend. Tears ran down his face and formed droplets on the ends of his whiskers. “ ‘Ow are you going to magic your way out o’ this one, spellslinger?” Something nudged him from behind, and he saw that the unicorn had crawled over close to him.
“Small you may be, otter, but you are most admirable in so many ways. I look forward to joining you on your homeward journey. It will give us the chance to get to know each other better. And it is said that where there is a will, there is a way.” He nuzzled the wide-eyed otter’s haunches.
Then it was Jon-Tom’s turn to laugh . . . .
Alan Dean Foster, The Day of the Dissonance
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