The Hour of the Gate Read online

  Jon-Tom parted the canvas rain shield and moved to sit down on the driver's seat next to Flor. She held the reins easily in one hand, as though bom to the task, and glanced over at him. Her free hand rested across her thighs. Her long black hair was a darker bit of shadow, like a piece of broken black plate glass, against the night. Her eyes were luminous and huge.

  He looked away from their curious stare and down at his hands. They twisted and moved uncomfortably in his lap, as though trying to find a place to hide; little five-footed creatures he could not cage.

  "I think we have a problem."

  "Only one?" She grinned at him, barely paying attention to the reins now. Without being told, the lizards would continue to plod onward on their present course.

  "But that's what life's all about, isn't it? Solving a series of problems? When they're as varied and challenging as these," and she flicked long nails in the air, a brief gesture mat casually encompassed two worlds and a shift in dimension, "why, that adds to the spice of it."

  "That's not the kind of problem I'm talking about, Flor. This one is personal."

  She looked concerned. "Anything I can do to help?"

  "Possibly." He looked up at her. "I think I'm in love with you. I think I've always been in love with you. I…"

  "That's enough," she told him, raising a restraining hand and speaking gently but firmly. "In the first place, you can't have always been in love with me because you haven't known me for always. Metaphysics aside, Jon-Tom, I don't think you've known me long enough.

  "In the second place, I don't think you're really in love with me. I think you're in love with the image of me you've seen and added to in your imagination, es verdad, amigo. To be erode about it, you're in love with my looks, my body Don't think I hold it against you. It's not your fault. Your desires and wants arc a product of your environment."

  This was not going the way he'd hoped, he mused confusedly. "Don't be so sure that you know all about me either, Flor."

  "I'm not." She was not offended by his tone. "I mean, how have you 'seen' me, Jon-Tom? How have you 'known' me? Short skirt, tight sweater, always the perfect smile, perfectly groomed, long hair flouncing and pom-poms jouncing, isn't that about it?"

  "Don't patronize me."

  "I'm not patronizing you, dammit! Use your head, hombre. I may look like a pinup, but I don't think like one. You can't be in love with me because you don't know me."

  "'Ere now, wot the 'ell are you two fightin' about?" Mudge stuck his furry face out from behind the canvas. " 'T!S too bloomin' nice a night for such witterin'."

  "Back out, Mudge," said Jon-Tom curdy at the interruption. "This is none of your business."

  "Oh, now let's not get our bowels in an uproar, mate. Suit yourself." With a last glance at them both, he obligingly retreated inside.

  "I won't deny that I find you physically attractive, Flor."

  "Of course you do. You wouldn't be normal if you didn't." She stared out across the endless dark plain, kissed with orange by the rising moon. "Every man has, ever since I was twelve years old. I've been through this before." She looked back at him.

  "The point is you don't know me, the real Hores Quintera. So you can't be in love with her. I'm flattered, but if we're going to have any kind of chance at a real relationship, we'd best start fresh, here and now. Without any preconceived notions about what I'm like, what you'd like me to be like, or what I represent to you. ComprendeV

  "Bor, don't you think I've had a look at the real you these past weeks?" Try as he might, he couldn't help sounding defensive.

  "Sure you have, but that's hardly long enough. And you can't be certain that's the real me, either. Maybe it's only another facet of my real personality, whose aspects are still changing."

  "Wait a minute," he said hopefully. "You said, 'chance at a real relationship.' Does that mean you think we have a chance for one?"

  "I've no idea." She eyed him appraisingly. "You're an interesting man, Jon-Tom. The fact that you can work magic here with your music is fascinating to me. I couldn't do it. But I don't know you any better than you know me. So why don't we start clean, huh? Pretend I'm just another girl you've just met. Let's call this our first date." She nodded skyward. "The moon's right for it."

  "Kind of tough to do," he replied, "after you've just poured out a deeply felt confession of love. You took that apart like a professor dissecting a tadpole."

  "I'm sorry, Jon-Tom." She shrugged. "That's part of the way I am. Part of the real me, as much as the pom-poms or my love of the adventure of this world. You have to leam to accept them all, not just the ones you like." She tried to sound encouraging. "If it's any consolation, while I may not love you, I do like you."

  "That's not much."

  "Why don't you get rid of that hurt puppy-dog look, too," she suggested. "It won't do you any good. Come on, now. Cheer up! You've let out what you had to let out, and I haven't rebuffed you completely." She extended an open hand. "Buenos noches, Jon-Tom. I'm Plores Maria Quintera. Como 'stasT'

  He looked silently at her, then down at the proferred palm. He took it with a resigned sigh. "Jon-Tom… Jon Meriweather. Pleased to meet you."

  After that, they got along a little more easily. The puncturing of Jon-Tom's romantic balloon released tension along with hopes…

  V

  It was a very ordinary-looking river, Jon-Tom thought. Willow and cypress and live oak clustered thirstily along its sloping banks. Small scaly amphibians played in thick underbrush. Reeds claimed the quiet places of the slow-moving eddies.

  The bank on the far side was equally well fringed with vegetation. From time to time they encountered groups of animals and humans occupied in various everyday tasks on the banks. They would be fishing, or washing clothes, or simply watching the sun do the work of carrying forth the daytime.

  The wagon turned eastward along the southern shore of the Sloomaz-ayor-le-WeentIi, heading toward the growing massif of the mountains and passing word of the coming invasion to any wannlander who would listen. But the River of Twos was a long way from Polastrindu, and the Jo-Troom Gate and the depredations of the Plated Folk only components of legend to the river dwellers.

  All agreed with the travelers on one matter, however: the problem of trying to pass downstream and through the Teeth.

  "Eh?" said one wizened old otter in response to their query, "ye want to go where?" In contrast to Mudge the oldster's fur was streaky-white. So were his facial whiskers. Arthritis bent him in the middle and gnarled his hands and feet.

  "Ye'll never make it. Ye won't make it past the entrance and if ye do, ye'll not find yer way through the rock. Too many have tried and none have ever come back."

  "We have resources others did not have," said Clothahump confidentally. "I am something of a formidable conjurer, and my associate here is a most powerful spellsinger." He gestured at me lanky form of Ion-Tom. They had stepped down from the wagon to talk with the elder. The dray lizards munched contentedly on rich riverbank growth.

  The old otter put aside his fishing pole and studied them. His short whistle indicated he didn't think much of either man or turtle, unseen mental talents notwithstanding.

  "Sorcerers ye may be, but the passage through the Teeth by way of the river is little but a legend. Ye can travel b legend only in dreams. Which is all that's likely to be left of ye if ye persist in this folly. Sixty years I've lived on the banks of the Sloomaz-ayor-le-Weentli." He gestured fondly at the flowing water behind him. "Never have I heard tell of anyone fool enough to try and go into the mountains by way of it."

  "Sounds convincin' enough for me, 'e does." Mudge leaned out of the wagon and spoke brightly. "That settles that: time to turn about for 'ome."

  Ion-Tom looked over his shoulder at the green-capped face "That does not settle it."

  Mudge shrugged cheerfully. "Can't biff a bloke for tryin', mate. I ought t' know better, I knows it, but somethin' in me insists on tryin' t' fight insanity in the ranks."

  "
Ya ought ta have more faith in da master." Pog fluttered above the wagon and chided the otter. "Ya oughta believe in him and his abilities and great talents." He drifted lower above Mudge and whispered. "Frankly, we all been candidates for da fertilizer pile since we started on dis half-assed trek, but if da boss tinks we gots to go on, we don't got much choice. Don't make him mad, chum."

  But Jon-Tom had overheard. He walked back to stand next to the wagon. "Clothahump knows what he's doing. I'm sure if things turned suicidal he'd listen to reason."

  "Ya tink dat, does ya?" Pog's small sharp teeth flashed as he hovered in front of Jon-Tom. One wing pointed toward the turtle, who was still conversing with the old otter.

  "Da boss has kept Mudge from runnin' off and abandonin' dis trip wid t'reats. What makes ya tink he'd be more polite where you're concerned?"

  "He owes me a debt," said Jon-Tom. "If I insisted on remaining behind, I don't think he'd try to coerce me."

  Pog laughed, whirled around in black circles. "Dat's what you tink! Ya may be a spellsinger, Jon-Tom-mans, but you're as naive as a baby's belly!' He rose and skimmed off over the river, hunting for insects and small flying lizards.

  "Is that your opinion too, Mudge? Do you think Clothahump would keep me from leaving if that's what I wanted?"

  "I wouldn't 'ave 'alf a notion, mate. But since you say you want to keep on with this madness, there ain't no point in arguin' it, is there?" He retreated back inside the wagon, leaving Jon-Tom to turn and walk slowly back down to the riverbank. Try as he would to shove the thought aside, it continued to nag him. He looked a little differently at Clothahump.

  "There be only one way ye might get even partway s through," continued the old otter, "and if yer lucky, out again alive. That's to have a damn good boatman. Qne who knows how to maneuver on the Second river. That's the only way ye'll even get inside the mountain."

  "Can you recommend such an individual?" asked Clothahump.

  "Oh, I know of several good boatfolk," the oldster boasted. He turned, spat something brown and viscous into the water, then looked from the turtle to Jon-Tom. "Trouble for ye is that ain't none of 'em idiots. And that's going to be as important a qualification as any kind of river skill, because only an idiot's going to try and take ye where ye wants to go!"

  "We have no need of your sarcasm, young fellow," said Clothahump impatiently, "only of your advice. If you would rather not give us the benefit of your knowledge, then we will do our best to find it elsewhere."

  "All right, all right. Hang onto ye shell, ye great stuffed diviner of catastrophes!

  "There's one, just one, who might be willing to help ye out. He's just fool enough to try it and just damnblast good enough to bring it off. Whether ye can talk him into doin' so is something else again." He gestured to his left.

  "Half a league farther on you'll find that the riverbank rises steeplike. Still farther you'll eventual come across several large oaks overlooking a notch or drop in the cliffs. He's got his place down there. Goes by the name of Bribbens Oxiey."

  "Thank you for your help," said Clothahump.

  "Would it help if we mentioned your name to him?" Jon-Tom wondered.

  The otter laughed, his whistles skipping across the water. "Hai, man, the only place me name would help you is in the better whorehouses in Wottletowne, and that's not where ye are going!"

  Clothahump reached into one of his plastron compartments, withdrew a small silver coin, and offered it to the otter. The oldster stepped away, waving his hands.

  "No, no, not for me, friend! I take no payment for assisting the doomed." He gathered up his pole and gear and ambled crookedly off upstream.

  "Nice of him to give us that name," said Jon-Tom, watching the other depart. "Since he wouldn't take the money, why didn't we try to help his arthritis?"

  "Arth… his joint-freezes, you mean, boy?" Clothahump adjusted his spectacles. "It is a long spell and requires time we do not have." He turned resolutely toward the wagon.

  Jon-Tom continued to stand there, watching the crippled otter make his loping way eastward. "But he was so helpful."

  "We do not know that yet," the turtle insisted. "I was willing to chance a little silver on it, but not a major medical spell. He could simply have told us his stories to impress us, and the name to get rid of us."

  "Awfully cynical, aren't you?"

  Clothahump gazed up at him as they both scrambled into the wagon. "My boy, the first hundred years Of life teaches you that no one is inherently good. The next fifty tells you that no one is inherently bad, but is shaped by his surroundings. And after two hundred years… give me a hand there, that's a good boy." Jon-Tom helped lug the bulky body over the wooden rail and into the wagon.

  "After two hundred years, you leam that nothing is predictable save that the universe is full of illusions. If the cosmos withholds and distorts its truths, why should we expect less of such pitifully minute components of it as that otter… or you, or me?"

  Jon-Tom was left to ponder that as the wagon once more rolled noisily westward.

  Everyone hoped the oldster's recommendation was sounder than his estimate of distance, for it took them two full days of traveling before they encountered three massive oaks dominating a low dip in the riverbank. While still a respectable width, the river had narrowed between the higher banks and ran with more power, more confidence, and occasional flecks of foam.

  Still, it didn't appear particularly dangerous or hard to navigate to Jon-Tom. He wondered at the need for a guide. The river was far more gentle than the rapids they had passed (admittedly with Falameezar's muscle) on the journey to Polastrindu.

  The path that wound its careful way down to the shore was narrow and steep. The lizards balked at it. They had to be whipped and cajoled downward, their claws shoving at the dirt as they tried to move backward instead of down the slope. Gravel and rocks slid over the side of the path. Once they nearly had a wheel slip over the edge, threatening to plunge wagon and lizards and all ass-over-heels into the tiny chasm. Verbally and physically, however, they succeeded in eventually getting the lizards to the bottom.

  Reeds and ferns dominated the little cove in which they found themselves. To the left, hunkered up tight against the cliffs, they found a single low building. It was not much bigger than a shack. A few small circular windows winked like eyes as they approached it, peering out beneath brows of adobe and thatching. Smoke curled lazily from the brown and gray rock chimney made of rounded river stones.

  What attracted their attention the most was the boat. It was moored in the shallows. Water lapped gently at its flanks. A well-tumed railing ran around the deck, and there was no central cabin.

  A heavy steering oar bobbed at the stem. There was also a single mast from which a fore-rigged sail hung limp and tired, loosely draped across the boom.

  "I hope our guide is as tough as his boat looks to be," said Talea as they mounted the covered porch fronting the house.

  "Only one way to find out." Jon-Tom ducked beneath the porch roof. The door set in the front of the building was cut from aged cypress. There was no window or peephole set into it.

  Pog found a comfortable cross-beam, hung head down from it, and let out a relieved sigh. "Not fancy, maybe, but a peaceful place ta live. I've always liked rivers."

  "How can you like anything?" Talea chided him as they inspected the house. "You see everything upside down."

  "Lizard crap," said the bat with a grunt. "You're da ones dat sees everyting upside down."

  Clothahump knocked on the door. There was no response. He rapped again, harder. Still nothing, so he tried the handle.

  "Locked," he said curtly. "I could spell it open easily enough, but that would mean naught if the owner is not present." He sounded concerned. "Could he perhaps be off on business with a second boat?"

  "If so," Jon-Tom started to say, "it wouldn't hurt us to have a short rest. We could wait until—"

  The door opened inward abruptly. The frog that confronted them stood j
ust over five feet tall, slightly less than Talea, a touch more than Mudge. Tight snakeskin shorts stopped just above his knees. The long fringework that lined its hem fell almost to his ankles. It swayed slightly as he stood inspecting them.

  The shorts were matched by a fringed vest of similar material. Beneath it he wore a leathern shut that ended above his elbows. Fringe reached from there to his wrists. He wore no hat, but a single necklace made from the vertebrae of some large fish formed a white collar around his green-andyellow-spotted neck.

  His ventral side was a pale blue that shaded to pink at the pulsing throat. The rest of his body was dark green marked with yellow and black spots. Compared to, say, Mudge or Clothahump, the coloration was somewhat overwhelming. He would be difficult to lose sight of, even on a dark day.

  Examining them one at a time, the frog surveyed his visitors. He thoroughly sized up every member of the group, not missing Pog where he hung from the rafter. The bat's head had swiveled around to stare curiously at the boatman.

  The frog blinked, spoke in a low monotone distinguished by its lack of inflection, friendly or otherwise.

  "Cash or credit?"

  "Cash," replied Clothahump. "Assuming that we can work out an agreement to our mutual satisfaction."

  "Mutual my ass," said the frog evenly. "I'm the one who has to be satisfied." When Clothahump offered no rebuttal, the boatman expressionlessly stepped back inside. "Come on in, then. No point in standing out in the damp. Sick customers make lousy passengers."

  They filed in, Jon-Tom and Hor electing to take seats on the floor rather than risk collision with the low, thick-beamed ceiling, hi addition, the few chairs looked too rickety to support much weight.

  The frog moved to a large iron stove set against a back wall. A large kettle simmered musically on the hot metal. He removed the cover, stirred the contents a few times, then sampled it with a large wooden ladle. The odor was foul. Taking a couple of large wooden shakers from a nearby wall shelf, he dumped some of their powdered contents into the kettle, stirred the liquid a little more, and replaced the iron cover, apparently satisfied.