THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
2O9
see the distant relative of a Serengeti kopje. ” Tis lower
than it were.”
“Nothing unnatural about that, Mudge. It’s just shrink-
ing into the distance as we walk.”
The otter shook his head insistently. ” ‘Tis shrinkin’ too
bloomin’ fast, mate.” He shouldered his pack and resumed
the march. “One more thing. Don’t it seem to either o’
you that we’re walkin’ downhill?”
Jon-Tom didn’t try to hide his confusion. He gestured at
the western horizon. “We’re on level ground. What are
you talking about?”
“I dunno.” The otter strained to put his feelings into
words. “Tis just that somethin’ don’t feel right ‘ere,
mate. It just don’t feel right.”
That night the otter’s nose proved of more help than his
sense of balance. They dug a hole through a dark stain in
the sand and were rewarded with a trickle of surprisingly
clear water. Patience enabled them to top off their water
skins and relieve their major anxiety. It was decided
unanimously to spend the night by the moisture seep.
Jon-Tom felt someone shaking him awake, peered sleep-
ily into still solid darkness. Mudge stared anxiously down
at him.
“Got somethin’ for you to ‘ave a looksee at, mate.”
“At this hour? Are you nuts?”
“I ‘ope so, mate,” the otter whispered. “I sincerely
‘ope so.”
Jon-Tom sighed and unrolled himself. As he did so he
found himself spitting out sand. The full moon gleamed
brightly on their campsite, to reveal packs, weapons, and
Roseroar’s feet partially buried in sand.
“The wind came up during the night, that’s all.” He