behind the granny glasses were rheumy with tears from the
pain. Perhaps he shouldn’t have been so abrupt. If
Clothahump couldn’t cure himself with his own masterly
potions and spells, then he was well and truly ill.
“I know what I am,” Clothahump continued, “but
what of you? A fine spellsinger you’ve turned out to be.”
“I’m still learning,” Jon-Tom replied defensively. He
fingered the duar slung over his shoulder. The peculiar
instrument enabled him to sing spells, to make magic
through the use of song. One might think it a dream come
true for a young rock guitarist-cum-law student, save for
the fact that he didn’t seem to have a great deal of control
‘ over the magic he made.
Since the onslaught of Clothahump’s pains, Jon-Tom
had sung two dozen songs dealing with good health and
good feelings. None had produced the slightest effect with
the exception of his spirited rendition of the Beach Boys’
“Good Vibrations.” That bit of spellsinging caused
Clothahump to giggle uncontrollably, sending powders and
potions flying and cracking his glasses.
Following that ignominious failure, Jon-Tom kept his
hands off the duar and made no further attempts to cure the
wizard.
“I didn’t really mean to imply that you’re faking it,” he
added apologetically. “It’s just that I’m as frustrated as
you are.”
Clothahump nodded, his breath coming in short, labored
THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE 3
gasps. His poor respiration was a reflection of the constant
pain he was suffering, as was his general weakness.
“I did the best I could,” Jon-Tom murmured.