The Hour of the Gate (15 page)

As the boat drifted still closer the thousands of tiny workers began milling uncomfortably, clustering close by doorways and other openings. Jon-Tom hailed them from his position at the bow, trying to assuage their worries.

“We mean you no harm,” he called gently. “We're only passing through your lands and admire your incredible building. What's it for?”

From the crest of a water-caressed rock a fur-covered nymph all of three and a half inches tall shouted back at him. He had to strain to understand the tiny lady.

“It is the Building,” she told him matter-of-factly, as though that should be explanation enough to satisfy anyone.

“Yes,” and he lowered his voice still further when he saw that his normal tone was painfully loud to her, “but what is the building for?”

“It is the Building,” the sprite reiterated. “We call it ‘Heart-of-the-World.' Does it not shine brightly?”

“Very brightly,” Talea said appreciatively. “It's very beautiful. But what
is
it for?”

The down-clad waif laughed delicately. “We are not sure. We have always worked on the Building. We always will work on the Building. What else is there to life but the Building?”

“You say you call it ‘Heart-of-the-World.'” Jon-Tom studied the radiant walls and glistening spires. At first he thought it had been made of real gold, then stone covered with gilt paint. Now he wasn't sure. It might be metal of another kind, or plastic, or ceramic, or some unimaginable material he knew nothing of.

“Perhaps it is the very heart of the world itself,” the little lady offered in suggestion. She smiled joyfully, showing perfect minuscule teeth. “We do not know. It beats with light as a heart does. If our work were to be stopped, perhaps the light would go out of the world.”

Jon-Tom considered saying more but found reason and reality at odds with one another, mixed up like a dog and a cat chasing each other around a pole, getting nowhere. He looked helplessly to Clothahump for an explanation. So did his companions.

“Who can say?” The wizard shrugged. “If it is truly the architecture of the heart of the world, then at least we can tell others that the world is well and truly fashioned.”

“Thank you, sir.” The sprite leaped nimbly to another rock further upstream to keep pace with them. “We do our best. We have become very adept at adding to and maintaining the Building.”

“Make sure,” Jon-Tom called to her, “that its glow never goes out!” They were passing into a narrower section of the river cavern, leaving the unnamed little folk and their enigmatic, immense construct behind.

“Who knows,” he said quietly to Flor, “if it is the heart of the world, then they'd better not be disturbed in their work. That's a hell of a responsibility. And if it's not, if it's only a building, an obsession, it's too beautiful to let die anyway.”

“I never thought the heart of the world would be a building,” she said.

“Aren't we all structures?” With the Massawrath and Helldrink safely far behind he was feeling alive and expansive. He'd always been that way: high ups and abyssal downs. Right now he was up.

“Each of us develops piece by piece. We're full of carefully built rooms and halls, audience chambers and windows, and we're populated with changing individualistic thoughts. I never imagined the heart of the world would be a building, though.” He stared back down the tunnel. It was growing dark, the radiant growths vanishing as they were prone to at unexpected intervals.

“In fact, I never thought of the world as having a heart.”

The last rich light from the distant chamber was lost to sight as they rounded a slight bend in the river. Bribbens was lighting the first lamp.

“That's a nice thought, Jon-Tom. If only having a heart meant you would be happy.”

“I suppose it often means the opposite.” But when the import of her last comment finally penetrated, she had left him to chat with their stolid steersman.

Jon-Tom hesitated, thought about pursuing it further by rejoining her to say, “Flor, are you trying to tell me something?” But he was as afraid of showing ignorance if he was interpreting her wrongly as he was of failure.

So he sat himself down in the flickering light and began to clean and tune his duar. As he tightened or loosened the strings, a gneechee or two would appear behind him, peering over his shoulder. He knew they were there and did his best to ignore them.

They were compelled to run on lamplight. Gradually the immense cave formations, the helictites and flowstone and such, began to grow smaller. In the narrowing confines of the river channel the rush and roar reverberated louder from the walls. The continuing absence of the familiar fluorescent fungi and their cousins was becoming unsettling.

No one liked the darkness. It reminded them too much of sleep, and that reminded them of the now distant but never to be forgotten sight of the Massawrath. More importantly, their lamp oil was running out. Bribbens had prepared well, but he hadn't expected to journey for long in total darkness. The now sorely missed bioluminescents were all that had kept them from traveling in black. Soon it appeared they might have to do so, relying on Pog's abilities to guide them, unless the light-producing vegetation reappeared.

A hand was shaking him. It was too small to be part of the Massawrath, too solid to be one of its children. Nevertheless he had an instant of terror before coming awake.

“Get up, Jon-Tom. Move your ass!” It was the urgent voice of Talea.

“What?” But before he could say anything more she'd moved on to the next sleeping form. He heard her banging on an echoing surface.

“Wake up, wizard. You lazy old wizard, wake up!” She sounded worried.

“I still admit to ‘old' but not the other.” A grumbling Clothahump clambered to his feet.

Jon-Tom blinked, fought to dig sleep from his eyes. It was hard to see anything in the reduced light from the lamps. Bribbens was trying to conserve their dwindling supply of oil.

Then he saw the cause of her anxiety. In the blackness ahead was a writhing sheet of flame, completely blocking the river. It hung in the air there, a dull, thick orange-silver that did not move. The others awoke and moved to the bow to examine it. All agreed it was a most peculiar kind of fire.

As they cruised closer no rise in temperature or indeed any heat at all could be felt. The orange-silver hue did not change.

“Can it be another structure like the Heart-of-the-World building of the little folk?” Flor licked her lower lip and stared anxiously forward.

“No, no. The color is all wrong, supple shadow, and there is no sign of separation; levels, floors, or windows.” Caz faced the wizard. “What is your opinion of it, sir?”

“Just a moment, will you?” Clothahump sounded irritable. “I'm not fully awake yet. Do you children think I have your physical resiliency simply because my brain is so much more active? Now then, this surely cannot be dangerous.” He called back to Bribbens. “Steady ahead, my good boatman.”

“Don't have much choice.” The frog snapped off his reply as he tightened his grip on the steering sweep. “Tunnel's become too narrow for us to turn 'round in. Some of the rocks hereabouts look sharp. I don't want to chance 'em, so it's steady ahead unless it turns desperate.”

The boatman was forced to raise his voice to a near shout to make himself understood. The rush of air in the pipe of a cave argued noisily with the increased force of the current.

They watched silently while that cold flame came nearer. Then there was another, dimmer light haloing it, and the orange-silver no longer blocked their progress. The new light came from tiny shining points that flickered unevenly, but not like gneechees. These were both visible and motionless.

“Well, shit.” Mudge put hands on hips and sounded thoroughly disgusted with himself. “'Tis a prize pack o' idiots we be, mates.”

Jon-Tom didn't understand immediately, but it didn't take long until he knew the reason for the otter's embarrassment. When he did so he felt equally ashamed of his own fear.

The orange-silvery color was familiar enough. Then they emerged from the cavern. The great rising orb of moon no longer shone directly down into the Earth's Throat.

“We made it.” He hugged a startled Talea. “Damned if we didn't!”

The character of the land they had emerged into was very different from that of the Swordsward and the river country of Bribbens' home. It was evident they had climbed a considerable distance.

Behind them towering crags reached for the stars. Clouds capped them, though they were not as thick as those on the eastern flanks of the range. No open plains or low scrub bordered the river here. There was no fragrant coniferous forest or high desert.

Mountains rose all around the little river valley in which they found themselves. Despite the altitude the country displayed the aspect of more tropical climes. It was warm but not hot, nor was it particularly humid. Jon-Tom thought of a temperate-zone climax forest.

Vines and creepers leaped from tree to tree. A thick undergrowth prevented them from seeing more than a few yards inland on either shore.

It was with relief that Jon-Tom inhaled the fresh air, fragrant with the aroma of flowers and green things. Though hardly tropical, the climate was more pleasant despite the altitude than any place he'd yet been. Compared to the bone-rattling winds of the Swordsward it was positively Edenic.

“Fine country,” he said enthusiastically. “I'm surprised none of the warmlanders have tried to migrate here.”

“Even if they knew this land existed they could not get over the mountains,” Clothahump reminded him. “Only a very few in memory have ever made that journey. Even if would-be settlers could survive the trip, kindly keep in mind that this land is already occupied. Legend says the Weavers dislike any strangers. Consider what their opinion would be of potential colonists.”

“And these are the people we're trying to make allies of?” Flor wondered.

“They are not overt enemies,” Clothahump told her, shaking his head slowly. “Legend says they are content enough here in their land. Yet I admit legend also insists they hold no love for any but their own kind. It is said they like most to keep to themselves and maintain their privacy.

“As near as I know we are the first folk to journey past the mountain barrier in hundreds of years. Perhaps the legends no longer hold true. It may be that in all that time the inhabitants of the Scuttleteau have mellowed.”

“They sure sound charming,” said Flor apprehensively. “I can't wait to meet them.” Her voice rose in tone, and she mimed a sardonic greeting.
“Buenos dias,
Señor Weaver.
Como esta usted,
and please don't eat me, I'm only a tourist.” She sighed and grimaced at the wizard. “I wish I were as confident of success as you are.”

“I'm 'ardly an optimist, meself,” Mudge commented, surveying the near shore and considering a warm swim.

“Oh well. Surely they will see the need,” said Caz hopefully, “to stand together against a common threat.”

“That is to be hoped,” the wizard agreed. “But we cannot be certain. We can only pray for a friendly welcome. Should we actually achieve anything more than that, it would exceed my wildest hopes.”

There were some shocked looks in response to that. Jon-Tom spoke for all of them. “You mean… you're not sure you can persuade them?”

“My dear boy, I never made any such claim.”

“But you gave me the impression…”

Clothahump held up a hand. “I made no promises. I merely stated that there was little we could do if we remained in Polastrindu and that we might have some chance of securing another strong ally were we to successfully complete this journey. I never said that reaching the Scuttleteau was a guarantee we could do that. Nor did I ever display any optimism about striking such an alliance. I simply declared that I thought it would be a good idea to try.”

“You stiff-backed, bone-brained old fart, you led us on!” Talea was nearly too furious for words. “You cajoled us through all that,” and she pointed back toward the mouth of the tunnel they'd recently emerged from, “through everything we've suffered since leaving Polastrindu, without thinking we had any chance to succeed?”

“I did not say we did not have a chance.” Clothahump patiently corrected her. “I said our chances were slim. That is different from nonexistent. When I say achieving such an alliance would exceed my wildest hopes, I am merely being realistic, not fatalistic. The chance is there.”

“Why the fuck couldn't you have been ‘realistic' back in Polastrindu?” she growled softly. “Couldn't you have told us how slight you thought our chances of success were?”

“I could have, but no one thought to ask me. As to the first, if I had been more, shall we say, explicit in my opinions, none of you would have come with me. Those who might have would not have done so with as much confidence and determination as you have all displayed thus far.”

Since this logic was irrefutable, no one chose to argue. There was some spirited name-calling, however. The wizard ignored it as one would have the excited chatter of children. Pog found the situation unbearably amusing.

“Now ya see what I have ta deal wid, don'tcha?” He giggled in gravely bat-barks as he swung gleefully from the spreader. “Maybe now ya all'll sympathize wid poor Pog a little bit more!”

“Shut your ugly face.” Talea heaved a hunk of torchwood at him. He dodged it nimbly.

“Now, now, Talea-tail. Late for recriminations, don'tcha tink?” Again the rich laughter. “His Bosship has ya all where he wants ya.” A series of rapid-fire squeeks seeped out as he delightedly lapped up their discomfort.

“It does seem you've been somewhat less than truthful with us, sir,” said Caz reprovingly.

“Not at all. I have not once lied to any of you. And the odds do not lessen the importance of our trying to conclude this alliance. The more so now that we have actually completed the arduous journey through the Earth's Throat and have reached the Scuttleteau.