The Moment of the Magician by Alan Dean Foster

Author:Alan Dean Foster [Foster, Alan Dean]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781453211779
Google: mAvX273junYC
Amazon: 1416504664
Barnesnoble: 1416504664
Goodreads: 357775
Publisher: ibooks Inc
Published: 2005-10-28T07:00:00+00:00

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"Damn it, mate, move your arse!" Mudge yelled as Jon-Tom fell to hands and knees. The otter extended a paw out to his friend.

Jon-Tom tried to stand, but the surface under his feet was now shaking like Jell-O as it rose from the water. He gathered himself and leaped, landing hard on the raft. Mudge shoved frantically at the paddles, trying to push them back into the water.

Too late. The island had risen on all sides, and they found themselves ascending into the damp air along with the beached raft. Water rushed off the black hillside, turning to foam where rising mass met the swamp. Mudge lay flat on the deck of the raft, clinging to the vines that held the logs together, while Jon-Tom wrapped both arms around one of the paddle poles. They were surrounded by strange growths which seemed to be attached to the island's bulk even where it had rested beneath the water. They resembled the skeletons of dead cacti, hollow and light.

Shellfish, snails, and other inhabitants of shallow-water environments scrambled for the water as their homes were lifted into the air. Jon-Tom would have joined them, but they couldn't abandon the raft and all their supplies.

The section of island on which they teetered finally stabilized, but the black land ahead continued rising. This substantial tower of mud and swamp ooze didn't stop growing until it loomed threateningly over them. Innumerable bottom-dwellers, frantic fish, and trapped underwater plants dripped from the tower's sides.

Then the ooze opened its dozen or so eyes and stared down at the puny creatures marooned on its back.

Mudge let go of the vines, put both hands over his eyes, and moaned, "Oh shit!" while Jon-Tom continued clinging to the paddle nearby, staring wide-eyed up at the emergent mountain of swamp muck.

"Ho, ho, ho!" said the apparition, showing a dark, toothless mouth more than wide enough to swallow the raft and its occupants whole. "What have we here? Strangers!"

Jon-Tom tried to smile. "Just passing through."

"You scratched me." The voice was heavy, ponderous, and slow.

"We're sorry. We didn't mean to."

"Oh, that's all right. I liked it." It grinned hugely, Jon-Tom noted that the size of the vast mouth wasn't fixed. It expanded and contracted and sometimes tended to slide toward the side of the head. So did the eyes, which ballooned from tiny dots to globular bulbs the size of a car. The vast curving bulk blotted out trees and sky.

"I am," Jon-Tom replied carefully, "relieved to hear it."

"You're nice," said the ooze. "Different. I like different." Eyes indicated the surrounding swamp. "Nothing here is different. Everything's always the same. I like different."

Jon-Tom's arms were cramping. Slowly, he loosened his grip on the paddle pole. "You live here in the swamp?" Now, there, he thought, was a clever question.

The answer was not as self-evident as he believed. A slow, rippling laugh emerged from somewhere down in the depths. It sounded like distant drums.

"Sort of. I am the swamp. I am the " and it said something incomprehensible.

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