Jon-Tom. "Those are the places where thee might encoun-
ter the fairy folk. If thee must seek them out."
"It seems we've no choice." Rising, Jon-Tom turned to
inspect the tree-fringed hillside.
The elderly chipmunk resumed his walk. "I wish thee
luck, then. I wish thee luck. Thee will need it to locate the
enchanted ones, and thee will need it even more if thee
do."
The ridge above gave way to a heavily wooded slope on
the far side that grew progressively steeper. Soon they
were fighting to maintain their balance as they slipped and
slid down the dangerous grade.
At least, Jon-Tom and Roseroar were. With their inher-
ent agility and lower centers of gravity, Jalwar and Mudge
had no difficulty at all with the awkward descent, and
Folly proved lithe as a gibbon.
A stream ran along the bottom of the narrow gorge. It
was broader than the one they'd left behind, but not deep
enough to qualify as a river. Moss and many kinds of ferns
184
Alan Dean Foster
THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
185
clung to logs and boulders. Insects hummed in the cool,
damp air while dark granite and schist soaked up the rays
of the sun.
They spent most of the day searching along the creek
before deciding to move on. An insurmountable waterfall
forced them to climb up the far side of the gorge. They
topped the next ridge, climbed down still another slope
where they camped for the night.
By the afternoon of the following day they were explor-
ing their fourth such canyon. Jon-Ton was beginning to
think that the fairy folk were a myth invented by an
especially garulous old rodent to amuse himself at the
expense of some gullible travelers.
They were finishing up a late meal when Mudge suddenly
erupted from his seat on a thick patch of buttery yellow
flowers. His bark of surprised pain echoed down the creek.
Everyone jumped. Roseroar automatically reached for
her swords. Folly crouched ready to run while Jalwar's fur
bristled on his neck. Jon-Tom, who was more familiar
with the otter's overreactions, left his staff alone.
"What the hell bit you?"
Mudge was trying to inspect his backside. "SometmV
sure as 'ell did. 'Ere, Folly, be a good girl and see if I'm
bleedin'?" He turned to her and bent slightly.
She examined the area dominated by the short, stubby
tail and protected by leather shorts. "I don't see anything."
" 'Ave a close look."
"You fuzzy pervert." She gave him a look of disgust as
she moved away.
"No, really. Not that I deny the accusation, luv, but
somethin' took a chunk out o' me backside for sure,"
"Liar! What would I do with a chunk of you?"
The voice was high but firm and came from the vicinity
of the flowerbed. Jon-Tom crawled over for a close look,
searching for the source of the denial.
Tiny hands parted the stalks, which were as yellow as
the thick-petaled flowers, and he found himself staring at
something small, winged, feminine, and drastically
overweight.
"I'll be damned," he murmured. "A fat fairy."
"Watch your mouth, buster," she said as she sort of
lumbered out lightly until she was standing on a broken
log. The log was brown with red longitudinal stripes
running through the bark. "I know I've got a small
personal problem, and I don't need some big-mouthed
human reminding me of the fact."
"Sorry." Jon-Tom tried to sound contrite. "You are a
fairy, aren't you? One of the enchanted folk?"
"Nah," she snapped back, "I'm a stevedore from
Snarken."
Jon-Tom studied her closely. Her clothing resembled
wisps of spun gossamer lavender candy. A miniature tiara
gleamed on her head. Long hair trailed below her waist.
The tiara had been knocked askew and covered one eye.
She grunted as she struggled to straighten it. In her right
hand she clutched a tiny gold wand. Her wings were
shards of cellophane mottled with thin red stripes.
"We were told," Folly said breathlessly, "that you
could help us."
"Now, why would I want to do that? We've got enough
problems of our own." She stared at Jon-Tom. "That's a
nice duar. You a musician, bright boy?"
"'e's a spellsinger, and a right powerful one, too,"
Mudge informed her. "Come all the way from across the
Glittergeist to fetch back medicine for a sick sorcerer."
"He's a right powerful fool," she snapped. She sat
down heavily on the log, her legs spread wide in a most
casual and unladylike manner. Jon-Tom estimated her to
be about four inches high and almost as wide.
"I'm called Jon-Tom." He introduced his companions.
An uneasy silence ensued and he finally asked, "What's
your name?"
"None of your business."
"Come on," he said coaxingly. "Whether you help us
186
Alan Dean Foster
or not is up to you, but can't we at least be polite to one
another?"
"What's this? A polite human? That doesn't make any
sense, bald-body." She shrugged. "What the hell. My
name's Grelgen. Want to make something of it?"
"Uh, no." Jon-Tom decided he was going to have to
tread very carefully with this pint-size package of enchanted
belligerence.
"Smart answer. You got anything to eat?"
Jalwar started to rummage through his pack. "I think
we have some snake jerky, and there are a few hard rolls."
"Ptui!" She spat to her right. "I mean real food. Fruit
tarts, cream cups, nectar custard, whipped honey rolls."
Jon-Tom said carefully, "I think I am beginning to see
what your problem is."
"Oh, you are, are you, fungus-foot? You think every-
thing's cut and dried, don't you? It's all so obvious to
you." She was pacing now, back and forth atop the log,
waving her tiny hands to punctuate her words.
"Say, you can't fly, can you?"
She turned to face him. "Of course I can fly, dumbutt."
She wiggled her diaphanous wings. "What do you think
these are for? Air-conditioning?"
"All right, then let's see you fly. Come on, fly."
"Feh! You'd think I didn't have anything better to do
than put on a show for a bunch of pituitary freaks."
"You can't fly!" Jon-Tom said triumphantly. "That's
your big problem. You've gotten so..."
"Watch it, jack," she said wamingly.
"... so healthy that you can't lift off anymore. I wouldn't
think it would make a difference. A bumblebee's too heavy
for flight, but it manages, and without enchantment."
"I'm a fairy, one of the enchanted folk," Grelgen
informed him, speaking as one would to an idiot child.
"Not a bumblebee. There are structural, aerodynamic, and
metabolic differences you wouldn't understand. As for
problems, you're the ones who are stuck with the biggie."
THE DAT OF THK DISSONANCE
187
She stabbed the wand at Mudge. "That turkey tried to
assassinate me!"
Mudge gaped in surprise. "Wot, me? I did nothin* o'
the kind, your shortness."
"You sat on me, rat-breath."
"Like 'ell I did! You crawled underneath me. Anyways,
'ow was I supposed to see you or anything else under all
them flowers?"
Grelgen crossed her arm. "I was sitting there minding
my own business, having a little afternoon snack of nectar
and pollen, and you deliberately dropped your rat-butt
right on top of me."
"You expect me to inspect every patch o' ground I sit
down on?"
"In our lands, yes."
"We didn't know it were your lands." Mudge was fast
losing patience with this infinitesimal harridan.
"Ah-/ia! So, a casual assassin. The worst kind." She