to the monster was waste ‘im. Unfortunately, ‘e did ‘imself
right proud in the process.”
Jon-Tom’s hand went to his head. “Ooooo.” Shifting
outlines resolved themselves into, the running figure of
Mudge.
” ‘Angover, mate?”
“No. No, I feel okay.” He looked up suddenly, back
toward the smoking mountain. “Al-Roojinn?”
“Zonked, skunked, blown-away. A fine a piece o’
spellsingin’ as was ever done, mate.”
“It was the song,” Jon-Tom murmured dazedly. “A
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good song. A special song. Jimi’s best. If anything could
dazzle a djinn, I knew it would be that. You can put me
down now, Roseroar.” The tigress set him down gently.
“Come on, mate. We’d best keep movin’ fast before
your spellsong wears off.”
“It’s all right, I think.” He looked back through the
forest toward the mountain. “It’s not a restraining song.
It’s a happy song, a relaxing song. Al-Roojinn didn’t seem
either happy or relaxed. Maybe he’s happy now.”
They followed the winding trail back toward Crancularn
and discovered a ghost town populated by slow-moving,
nebulous inhabitants who smiled wickedly at them, grin-
ning wraiths that floated in and out of reality. “It’s there
but some don’t see it,” Drom had said. Now Jon-Tom
understood the unicorn’s meaning. The real Crancularn
was as insubstantial as smoke, as solid as a dream.
They forced themselves not to run as they left the town
behind, heading for the familiar woods and the long walk
back to far-distant Lynchbany. Somewhere off to the right
came the grind of the ATC, but this time the helpful