board, just managed to save himself by grabbing on to a
stay. “I don’t unnershtand. It wash so calm when I went to
bed.”
“Well ’tis not calm now, mate,” snapped Mudge, wres-
tling with the heavy, wet sail.
“Ah’ve nevah seen a storm like this come up so quick-
ly.” Roseroar continued fighting with the wheel.
“The words,” Jalwar muttered. “The words of the
spellsinging! Don’t you remember?” He looked straight at
Jon-Tom. “Don’t you remember the words?”
“But ish just the chorush,” Jon-Tom groaned. “Jusht
the chorush.” He mumbled them again. ” ‘Thish ish the
worsht trip, I’ve ever been on.’ I didn’t mean that part of
the shong.”
The ferret was nodding. “So you sang. The spirits
cannot distinguish between what you sing and mean and
what you sing and do not mean. They have a way of taking
everything literally.”
“But ish not the worsht trip I’ve ever been on!”
Jon-Tom stood away from the rail on rubbery legs and
screamed his protest at the skies that threatened to swamp
them. “Ish not\”
The skies paid him no heed.
For hours they battled the winds. Twice they were in
danger of being swamped. They were saved only by the
unmagical efforts of the sloop’s pump. Somehow Jon-Tom
got it started, though the effort made him upchuck all over
the engine room. That wouldn’t happen again, though. His
stomach was empty.
If only it would feel empty.
Soon after they pumped out the second holdful of water,
the storm began to abate. An hour later the mountainous
seas started to subside. And still there was no real relief,
because thunder and lightning gave way to a thick,