Everyone was except him.
Suddenly he found himself in desperate need of a
porthole, barely located one in time to stick his face out
and throw his guts all over the equally upset ocean. When
he Finally finished puking he was soaking wet from the
spray. He felt a little less queasy but not any soberer.
Somehow he managed to slam the porthole shut and
refasten it. He staggered toward the gangway, pulled him-
self toward the deck.
Wind hit him hard the instant he stepped out on the teak
planking, and rain filled his vision. Roseroar was holding
the wheel steady with grim determination, but Mudge and
Jalwar were having a terrible time trying to wrestle the
mainsail down.
"Hurry it up!" the tigress roared, her voice barely
audible above the storm, "or we'll lose it fo sure!"
"I don't care if we do," Jon-Tom moaned, putting both
hands to the sides of his head, "just let's not shout about
it, shall we?"
1 'Tell it to the sky, spellsinger,'' pleaded Jalwar.
"Yeah, use your magic, mate," added Mudge. "Turn
this bloomin' weather back to normal!" Jon-Tom noticed
that both of them were soaked. "Get rid of this bloody
bedamned storm!"
THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
93
"Anything, anything," he told them, "if you'll just stop
shouting." He staggered and nearly went careening over-
board, just managed to save himself by grabbing on to a
stay. "I don't unnershtand. It wash so calm when I went to
bed."
"Well 'tis not calm now, mate," snapped Mudge, wres-
tling with the heavy, wet sail.
"Ah've nevah seen a storm like this come up so quick-
ly." Roseroar continued fighting with the wheel.
"The words," Jalwar muttered. "The words of the
spellsinging! Don't you remember?" He looked straight at
Jon-Tom. "Don't you remember the words?"
"But ish just the chorush," Jon-Tom groaned. "Jusht
the chorush." He mumbled them again. " 'Thish ish the
worsht trip, I've ever been on.' I didn't mean that part of
the shong."
The ferret was nodding. "So you sang. The spirits
cannot distinguish between what you sing and mean and
what you sing and do not mean. They have a way of taking
everything literally."
"But ish not the worsht trip I've ever been on!"
Jon-Tom stood away from the rail on rubbery legs and
screamed his protest at the skies that threatened to swamp
them. "Ish not\"
The skies paid him no heed.
For hours they battled the winds. Twice they were in
danger of being swamped. They were saved only by the
unmagical efforts of the sloop's pump. Somehow Jon-Tom
got it started, though the effort made him upchuck all over
the engine room. That wouldn't happen again, though. His
stomach was empty.
If only it would feel empty.
Soon after they pumped out the second holdful of water,
the storm began to abate. An hour later the mountainous
seas started to subside. And still there was no real relief,
because thunder and lightning gave way to a thick,
impenetrable fog.
94
Alan Dean Poster
Mudge was leaning on the rail, grumbling. "We'd
better not be near any land, mates." He glanced upward.
A faint glow suffused the upper reaches of the fog bank,
which had not thinned in the slightest. "I know you're up
there, you great big ugly yellow bastard! Why don't you
bum this driftin' piss off so we can see to be on our way!"
"The words of the song," Ja!war murmured. Mudge
snarled at him.
"And you pack in it, guv'nor, or I'll do it for you."
It was morning. Somewhere the sun was up there,
probably laughing at them. The compass still showed the
way, but the wind had vanished with the storm, and none
of Jon-Tom's feeble coaxing could induce the shiny new
diesel engine to perform.
The restored sail hung limp against the mast. The sloop
was floating through glassy, smooth, shallow water. A
sandy bottom occasionally rose dangerously close to the
keel, only to fall away again into pale blue depths each
time it looked like they were about to ground. Roseroar
steered as best she could, and with an otter and a ferret
aboard there was at least no shortage of sharp eyesight.
But as the day wore on and the fog clung tenaciously to
them, it began to look as if Jon-Tom's song was to prove
their simultaneous salvation and doom. The wind remained
conspicuous by its absence. Sooner or later the shallows
would close in around them and they would find them-
selves marooned forever in the midst of a strange sea.
The tension was taking its toll on everyone, even Roseroar.
Their spellsinger, who had conjured up this wonderful
craft, was of no use to anyone, least of all himself.
Thankfully he no longer threw up. Yet despite his unarguable
abstinence from any kind of drink, he remained falling-
down drunk. Smashed. Potted.
If anything, his condition had worsened. He strolled
about the deck muttering songs so incomprehensible and
slurred none of his companions could decipher them.
Just as a precaution, Mudge had sequestered Jon-Tom's
THE DAY OF THK DISSONANCE
95
duar in a safe place. He'd gotten them into this situation
while sober. It was terrifying to contemplate what might
happen if he started spellsinging while drunk.
"We have one chance," Jalwar finally declared.
"Wot's that, guv'nor?" Mudge sat on the port side of
the bow, keeping his eyes on the threatening shallows.
"To turn around. We aren't that far yet from the beach
where this unfortunate 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.