was broader than the one they’d left behind, but not deep
enough to qualify as a river. Moss and many kinds of ferns
184
Alan Dean Foster
THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
185
clung to logs and boulders. Insects hummed in the cool,
damp air while dark granite and schist soaked up the rays
of the sun.
They spent most of the day searching along the creek
before deciding to move on. An insurmountable waterfall
forced them to climb up the far side of the gorge. They
topped the next ridge, climbed down still another slope
where they camped for the night.
By the afternoon of the following day they were explor-
ing their fourth such canyon. Jon-Ton was beginning to
think that the fairy folk were a myth invented by an
especially garulous old rodent to amuse himself at the
expense of some gullible travelers.
They were finishing up a late meal when Mudge suddenly
erupted from his seat on a thick patch of buttery yellow
flowers. His bark of surprised pain echoed down the creek.
Everyone jumped. Roseroar automatically reached for
her swords. Folly crouched ready to run while Jalwar’s fur
bristled on his neck. Jon-Tom, who was more familiar
with the otter’s overreactions, left his staff alone.
“What the hell bit you?”
Mudge was trying to inspect his backside. “SometmV
sure as ‘ell did. ‘Ere, Folly, be a good girl and see if I’m
bleedin’?” He turned to her and bent slightly.
She examined the area dominated by the short, stubby
tail and protected by leather shorts. “I don’t see anything.”
” ‘Ave a close look.”
“You fuzzy pervert.” She gave him a look of disgust as