don't suppose there are any professional dieticians in the
village?''
"Any what?"
"No, of course not. See, all your problems are diet-
related. It not only explains your unnatural craving for
protein, it also explains your, uh, unusually rotound fig-
ures. Milk's okay, but the rest of that stuff is nothing but
pure sugar. I mean, I can't even imagine how many
calories there are in a daily dose of ambrosia. You proba-
bly use a lot of glucose when you're flying, but when you
stop flying, well, the problem only compounds itself."
One of the Elder fairies waiting impatiently behind
Grelgen now stepped forward. "What is this human raving
about?"
Grelgen pushed him back. "It doesn't matter." She
turned back to Jon-Tom. "What you say makes no sense,
and it wouldn't matter if it did, because we still have our
craving." She started to aim her wand at the trembling
Folly. "No use in trying to hide, girl. Step out here where
I can see you."
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Alan Dean Foster
THE DAY OF TOR DISSONANCE
197
Jon-Tom leaned sideways to block her aim. "Wait!
You've got to listen to me. Don't you see? If you'd only
change your eating habits you'd lose this craving for
protein."
"We're not interested in changing our eating habits,"
said another of the Elders. "We like nectar and honey and
ambrosia."
"All right, all right!" Jon-Tom said frantically. "Then
there's only one way out. The only other way to reduce
your craving for protein is for you to start burning off all
these extra ounces you've been accumulating. You've got
to break the cycle." He picked up the duar.
"At least give me a chance to help you. Maybe I can't
do it with spellsinging, but there are all kinds of magic."
"Consider carefully, man," Grelgen warned him. "Don't
you think we're aware that we have a little problem? Don't
you think we've tried to use our own magic to solve it?"
"But none of you is a spellsinger."
"No. That's not our kind of magic. But we've tried
everything. We're stuck with what we are. Your spellsinging
can't help us. Nothing can help us. We've experimented
with every type of magic known to the enchanted folk, as
well as that employed by the magic-workers of the greater
world. We're trapped by our own metabolisms." She
rolled up her sleeves. "Now let's get on with this without
any more bullshitting, okay?" She raised the wand again.
"Just one chance, just give me one chance!" he pleaded.
She swung the wand around to point it at him, and he
flinched. "I'm warning you, buster, if this is some sort of
trick, you'll cook before her."
"There's one kind of magic I don't think you've tried."
She made a rude noise. "Worm dung! We've tried it
all."
"Even aerobics?"
Grelgen opened her mouth, then closed it. She turned to
conference with the Elders. Jon-Tom waited nervously.
Finally she stuck her head out of the pile and inquired
almost reluctantly, "What strange sort of magic is this?"
Jon-Tom took a deep breath and rose. Putting aside the
duar, he began stripping to the waist.
Roseroar came over to whisper in his ear. "Suh, are yo
preparin' some trick ah should know about? Should ah be
ready with mah swords?"
"No, Roseroar. No tricks."
She shrugged and moved away, shaking her head.
Jon-Tom started windmilling his arms, loosening up.
Grelgen immediately retreated several steps and raised
the wand threateningly. "All you need is to learn this
magic," he said brightly. "A regular program of aerobics.
Not only will it reduce your unnatural craving for protein,
it should bring back your old aerodynamic figures."
"What does that mean?" asked one of the younger
fairies.
"It means we'll be able to fly again, stupid," replied
one of the Elders as he jabbed the questioner in the ribs.
"Fly again." The refrain was taken up by the rest of the
crowd.
"It's a trick!" snapped Grelgen, but the weight of
opinion (so to speak) was against her.
"All right." She tucked her wand under one arm and
glared up at Jon-Tom. "You get your chance, man. If this
is a trick to buy time, it better be good, because it's going
to be your last one."
"It's no trick," Jon-Tom assured her, feeling the sweat
starting to trickle from beneath his arms. And he hadn't
even begun yet.
"Look, I'm no Richard Simmons, but I can see we need
to start with the basics." He was aware he had the
undivided attention of several hundred sets of eyes. He
took a deep breath, thankful for the morning runs which
kept him in decent condition. "We're going to start with
some deep knee-bends. Hands on hips... watch those
198
Alan Dean Foster
Tarn DAY or THE DISSONANCE
199
wings, that's it. Ready." He hesitated. "This would work
better if we had some music."
Grelgen grunted, turned, and barked a command. There
was a brief delay. Several small figures made their way
through the enchanted mob and took up positions atop the
stone wall. Each carried a delicate instrument. There were
a couple of flutes, a set of drums, and something that
resembled a xylophone which had been in a bad traffic
accident.
"What should we play?" piped one of the minuscule
musicians.
"Something lively."
"A dance or roundelet?" They discussed the matter
among themselves, then launched into a lively tune with
faintly oriental overtones. Jon-Tom waited until he was
sure of the rhythm, then smiled at his attentive if uncertain
audience.
"Ready? Let's begin! Imitate me." He dipped. "Come
on, it's not hard. One, two, three, and bend; one, two,
three, and bend;... that's it!"
While Jon-Tom's companions looked on, several hun-
dred fairy folk struggled to duplicate the human's move-
ments. Before too long, groans and moans all out of
proportion to the size of the throats they came from filled
the air.
Grelgen was gasping and sweating. Her orange chiffon
gown was soaked. "You're sure that you're not actually
trying to murder us?"
"Oh, no." Jon-Tom was breathing a little hard himself.
"See, this isn't an instantaneous kind of magic. It takes
time." He sat down and put his hands behind his neck,
wondering how far he could go before Grelgen gave up.
"Now, this kind of magic is called sirups. Up, down, up,
down ... you in the back there, no slacking, now... up,
down..."
He worried constantly that Grelgen and her colleagues
would become impatient before the new exercise regimen
had time to do its work. He needn't have worried. The
enchanted folk took weight off as rapidly as they put it on.
By the second day the most porcine of the villagers could
boast of shrunken waistlines. By the third the effects were
being felt by all, and by the fourth even Grelgen could stay
airborne for short flights.
"I don't understand, mate," said Kludge. "You said it
'tweren't magic, yet see 'ow quick-like they're shrinkin'
down!"
"It's their metabolic rate. They burn calories much
faster than we do, and as soon as they get down to where
they can fly again, the burning accelerates."
The results were reflected in Grelgen's changing atti-
tude. As the exercises did their work, her belligerence
softened. Not that she became all sweetness and light, but
her gratitude was evident.
"A most wondrous gift you have given us, man. A new.
kind of magic." It was the morning of the fifth day of their