bounce.”
“Be quiet,” said Jon-Tom. “We’re in enough trouble
already. She’ll hear you.”
“Damned if I care if she does, guv.” The otter had his
hands shoved in his pockets and kicked disgustedly at
pebbles as they walked along the side of the creek. “If she
ain’t got common sense to see that—”
A paw the size of his head covered his mouth and,
incidently, most of his face. “Watch yo mouth, ottah,”
Roseroar told him. “Yo heard Jon-Tom. Let’s not irritate
these enchanted folk any moah than we already have.”
“I’d like to irritate ’em,” said the otter when she’d
removed her paw. But his voice had become a whisper.
The stream narrowed. Canyon walls closed in tight
around the marchers, all but shutting out the sun. Trees
and bushes grew into one another, forming a dense,
hard-to-penetrate tangle. The captives had to fight their
way through the thickening undergrowth.
Dusk brought them to the outskirts of the enchanted
folk’s village. In appearance it was anything but enchanted.
Tiny huts and homes were scattered around a natural
amphitheater. Evidence of disrepair and neglect abounded.
Some of the buildings were falling down, and even those
cut into massive tree roots had piles of trash mounded up
against the doorways. To Jon-Tom all this was clear proof
of a loss of pride among the inhabitants.
Tiny lights flickered to life behind many of the miniature
windows, and smoke started to curl from minute chim-
neys. Off to one side of the community a circular area was
surrounded by a stone wall pierced by foot-high archways.