They were applauding.
He did the only thing he could, of course. Sweeping his grand purple cape behind him, he put one foot back, brought his other arm around in front of his chest, and took a bow.
Maybe it wasn’t MTV, he mused, but it wasn’t so bad, either.
“Wot about all that, mate?” As the soldiers helped the last of the princesses to board, the otter pointed to the gargantuan amplifier and speakers. The recklessly invoked timpani had vanished with Jon-Tom’s last song. Waves were already lapping at the base of the otherworldly electronics as the tide started to change.
“Cazpowarex sent them here. He’ll have to deal with them. Since I didn’t magic them up, I don’t see how I can send them away. This is a deserted island. They won’t be the source of any distressing speculation.”
“No, but I can see as ’ow they might make someone a mite curious someday.” Walking over to the nearest monolith, he ran the tips of his fingers along the shiny black surface. There was an imperceptible vibration. “Some folk might invent a legend or two to explain ’em.”
“Let them.” Jon-Tom was eager to be gone from this place.
Epilogue
THEY TOOK THEIR LEAVE of the island. Attended by A thousand whales and porpoises, they safely brought the princesses to Aleaukauna’s homeland of Harakun, which lay on the rich and prosperous eastern shore of the Farraglean Sea. From there it was nothing but that they had to individually escort each and every one of the rescued ladies to their respective kingdoms.
In Tuuro and Borobos, in Trenku and Paressi Glissar they were greeted and feted as heroes, much to Jon-Tom’s embarrassment. Always ready to help out his reluctant companion, Mudge vowed to celebrate for the both of them, which he did to the fullest extent of his astonishing capacity.
In Trenku they parted company with a tearful Pivver, a parting far harder on Mudge than was Jon-Tom’s farewell to Ansibette of Borobos, who by now had eyes only for the remarkably reformed Hinckel. After spending several weeks in her highly attentive company, he had quickly decided that twenty years of music lessons was a small price to pay to continue such a relationship indefinitely.
Wolf Gathers, Splitz Zimmerman, and Nuke-o Hill found themselves comfortably ensconced under Seshenshe’s personal care at the court of Paressi Glissar. True to Jon-Tom’s word, the court boasted in attendance numerous well-bred representatives of many other tribes, the human included.
Eventually man and otter managed, by means of boat and cart, foot and pack animal, to wend their way back to the familiar confines of the Bellwoods, whereupon they were promptly confronted by a less-than-understanding Talea and Weegee, who demanded in no uncertain terms to know precisely where the hell their wandering consorts had taken off to for so long.
“I left you a note,” Jon-Tom stammered hopefully.
“Yes, a note.” Conscious of the fact that a furious Weegee could be far more dangerous than any errant spellsong, Mudge lingered in the spellsinger’s shadow.
Knowing it was what she really wanted instead of some half-baked male excuse, Jon-Tom took his wife in his arms. “We were just out chasing a tune,” he murmured before he kissed her. She fully intended to formulate an angry reply, but since that’s difficult to do while in the midst of a kiss, she decided to hold the thought until later.
Weegee stepped around the embracing humans. “And what might be your excuse, nimble-fingers?”
“Well, you know ’ow it ’tis, luv. Where Jon-Tom goes, I sort o’ ’ave to follow.” Drawing reassurance from her hesitation, he put an arm around her and drew her aside, lowering his voice as he did so.
“’Orrible it were, me luv, just ’orrible. Such perils, such dangers as you can’t imagine. Overcame ’em all, I did. In the name o’ music an’ art. ’Tis a wonderment we survived.”
“Survived, fishballs!” She jabbed him in the belly, drew back her fist to punch him, and ended up smiling. “Flay me for a holiday cloak if you haven’t put on a hand’s-breadth in width. What sort of ‘peril’ caused that?”
“Now, don’t fret, luv, I ’ave an explanation.” Advancing, he once again put his arms around her and affectionately began to nuzzle her muzzle with his own until she started to relent.
He did, of course. Have an explanation. Which only proved that Jon-Tom wasn’t the only one in the room who could work magic.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
copyright © 1994 by Thranx, Inc.
cover design by Jason Gabbert
ISBN: 978-1-4532-1189-2
This edition published in 2011 by Open Road Integrated Media
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Alan Dean Foster, Chorus Skating
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