The Hour of the Gate by Alan Dean Foster Read Free Book Online Page B

occasion is wot I’d ’ave in mind.” Again the otter whistle, and they both laughed.
    â€œI’m glad somebody thinks this is funny.” Talea glared at them both.
    â€œNo,” said Caz more quietly, “I don’t think it’s very funny at all, glowtop. But our hands and feet are bound, I can reach no familiar salve or balm from our supplies though I am bruised all over. I can’t do anything about the damage to my body, but I try to medicate the spirit. Laughter is soothing to that.”
    Jon-Tom could see her turn away from the rabbit, her badly tousled hair even redder in the glow from the multiple fires. Her shoulders seemed to droop and he felt an instinctive desire to reach out and comfort her.
    Odd the occasions when you have insights into the personalities of others, he thought. Talea struck him as unable to find much laughter at all in life, or, indeed, pleasure of any kind. He wondered at it. High spirits and energy were not necessarily reflective of happiness. He found himself feeling sorry for her.
    Might as well feel sorry for yourself, an inner voice reminded him. If you don’t slip loose of these pygmy paranoids you soon won’t be able to feel sorry for anyone.
    Unable to pull free of his bonds, he started working his way across the circle, trying to come up against a rock sharp enough to cut them. But the soil was thick and loamy, and he encountered nothing larger than a small pebble.
    Failing to locate anything else he tried sawing patiently at his ropes with fingernails. The tough fiber didn’t seem to be parting in the least. Eventually the effort exhausted him and he slid into a deep, troubled sleep… .

IV
    IT WAS MORNING when next he opened his eyes. Smoke drifted into the cloudy sky from smoldering camp fires, fleeing the still, swardless circle like bored wraiths.
    Once more the carrying poles were brought into use and he felt himself lifted off the ground. Flor went up next to him, and the others were strung out behind. As before, the journey was brief. No more than three or four hundred yards from the site of the transitory village, he estimated.
    Quite a crowd had come along to watch. The poles were removed. Mimpa gathered around the six limp bodies. Chattering among themselves, they arranged their captives in a circle, back to back, their legs stuck out like the spokes of a wheel. Arms were bound together so that no one could lie down or move without his five companions being affected. A large post was placed in the center of the circle, hammered exuberantly into the earth, and the prisoners shoulders bound to it.
    They sat in the center of a second clearing, as smelly as the first. The Mimpa satisfied themselves that the center pole was securely in the ground and then moved away, jabbering excitedly and gesturing in a way Jon-Tom did not like at the captives ringing the pole.
    Despite the coolness of the winter morning and the considerable cloud cover, he was sweating even without his cape. He’d worked his nails and wrists until all the nails were broken and blood stained the restraining fibers. They had been neither cut nor loosened.
    Along with other useless facts he noted that the grass around them was still moist from the previous night’s rain and that his feet were facing almost due north. Clothahump was struggling to speak. He couldn’t make himself understood around the gag and in any case didn’t have the strength in his aged frame to continue the effort much longer.
    â€œWe can move our legs, anyway,” Jon-Tom pointed out, raising his bound feet and slamming them into the ground.
    â€œActually, they have secured us in an excellent defensive posture,” agreed Caz. “Our backs are protected. We are not completely helpless.”
    â€œIf any of those noulps show up, they’ll find out what kind of legs I have,” said Flor grimly, kicking out experimentally with her own feet.
    â€œLucky