behind.
“Which way to Snarken?” she asked as she worked the
wheel and a hand winch simultaneously. The mainsail
billowed in the freshening wind.
“I don’t know. You’re the sailor.”
“Sailor ah confess to, but ah’m no navigator, man.”
“Southwest,” Mudge told her. “For now that’s good
enough.”
Roseroar adjusted their heading, brought it in line with
the directions supplied by the compass. “Southwest it is.”
The sloop changed directions smoothly, responding instantly
to the tigress’s light touch on the wheel.
Feeling reasonably confident that at last all was right
with the world, Jon-Tom reprised the song and for good
measure added a chorus of the Beach Boys’ “Sail On, Sail
On, Sailor.” The sun was warm, the wind steady, and
Snarken seemed just over the near horizon.
Putting up the duar, he escorted Jalwar down to the
galley, there to explain the intricacies of the propane stove
and such otherworldly esoterica as Saran Wrap and can
THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
91
openers to their designated chef. That and the rest of a fine
day well done, he allowed himself to be first to bed.
To be awakened by rough hands shaking him violently.
“Get up, get up, spellsinger!”
Feeling very strange, Jon-Tom rolled over, to find him-
self staring into the worried face of the ferret.
“What… whash wrong?” He was startled by the sound
of his own voice, unnaturally thick and slurred. And the
boat seemed to be rolling in circles.
“We are in bad trouble, spellsinger. Bad trouble.”
Jalwar disappeared.
Jon-Tom sat up. It took three tries. Then he tried to get