By late that night half-inch-long fur, dark brown and glossy, covered the otter’s entire body. By morning it had grown back to its normal length. Each bristle was unusually thick, but the color and feel were otherwise correct and Mudge could have cared less about the one unnoticeable variation. He looked like himself again.
Toward the end of the day he no longer did.
“When do you suppose this’ll stop growin’?” He was staring down at himself and muttering.
“Don’t worry about it.” Weegee gave him a reassuring caress. “If it gets any longer we can always give you a trim.”
Trouble was, it continued to grow and short of swords they had nothing to trim it with. So it continued to lengthen, growing at the same steady extraordinary speed, until it was a foot long. This slowed their progress since Mudge had a tendency to step on and trip over the fur growing from his feet. He’d long since had to removed his boots. Finally it was decided to resort to the use of a short sword, but trimming it back only accelerated the rate of regrowth.
By the morning of the next day the quartet included three anxious travelers and a shambling ball of fuzz. Mudge was reduced to holding the fur away from his eyes in order to see.
“You look like the sheepdog that ate Seattle.”
“This is gettin’ bloody absurd, mate. Pretty soon I won’t be able to walk.”
“Then we roll you into Strelakat Mews.” Cautious ducked beneath a branch. “I hope among their master craftsfolk there be a master barber.”
“And I’ve about ’ad it with the clever comments!” the otter bawled angrily. He would have taken a swing at the raccoon except that he could barely move his arms.
By afternoon a light rain was falling and, perhaps by coincidence, so was the fur. It came out in four-foot-long strands. When the last hank lay upon the ground there stretched out behind them a trail of fur sufficient to fill a couple of good-sized mattresses. Mudge was bare-ass bald again.
Yet new bristles were already starting to appear on his back. By nightfall his coat had grown back to normal.
“Maybe we’ll wake up in the mornin’ an’ I’ll be meself again,” he said hopefully as he wrapped himself in a light bedroll.
“I’m sure you will.” Weegee patted him soothingly. “It’s been a terrible couple of days for you but I bet the infection’s run its course. You’ve lost it all, had it come back in multiples, lost that and regained it again. Surely nothing else can happen.” She lay down next to him.
The main problem with jungle trekking, Jon-Tom reflected, was that you sweated all the time. Not that it mattered to anyone but him, since odor was an accepted bodily condition in this world. But he wasn’t used to smelling as strongly as Mudge, say, and he was finding it increasingly difficult to ignore his own intensifying aroma.
For a change he was the first one up. The camp was silent. Weegee slept comfortably on her side and Cautious lay on his belly not far away. But where was Mudge? Had the otter wandered off in a fit of depression and perhaps fallen into one? The cycle of too much fur–none at all had stressed his stubby companion considerably. A quick inspection of the camp revealed no sign of the otter.
“Weegee.” He shook her firmly. “Wake up, Weegee.”
She sat up fast. Otters do not awaken gradually. “What’s wrong, Jon-Tom?”
“Mudge has disappeared.”
She was on her feet fast and he moved to wake Cautious.
“Ain’t here.” The raccoon turned a slow circle. “Wonder what happened to him, you bet.”
“He’s always hungry,” said a worried Weegee. “Maybe he’s just gone berry hunting or something. Let’s shout his name simultaneously and see what happens.”
“Right.” Jon-Tom cupped his hands to his mouth. “All together now: one, two, three. …”
“MUDGE!”
This provoked an immediate response, but not from a distant section of forest. “Will you lot kindly shut up so a body can finish ’is bleedin’ sleep?”
The voice seemed to come from close by, but though they searched carefully there was no sign of its source.
“Mudge? Mudge, where are you?” Weegee looked up at Jon-Tom. “Has he gone invisible?”
“No, I ain’t gone invisible,” the otter groused. “You’ve all gone blind is wot.”
Jon-Tom nodded to his left. “I think he’s sleeping under that flower bed over there.” Sure enough, when he walked over and parted the blossoms a pair of angry brown eyes glared back at him, blinking sleepily.
“Gone deaf, too. I said I were tryin’ to catch up on me sleep, mate. Do I boot you out o’ bed when you’re sleepin’ late?”
Jon-Tom took a deep breath as he stepped back. “I think you’d better take a good look at yourself, Mudge.”
“Cor, wot is it this time?” The flower bed sat up slowly. “No fur? Too much fur?” He glanced downward and his voice became an outraged squeak. “Oh me god, now wot’s ’appened to me?”
What had happened was as obvious as it was unprecedented. During the night Mudge’s fur had returned to its normal length and consistency but with one notable exception. The slight thickening they had noticed at the tip of each bristle had blossomed into—well, into blossoms. Each bristle was tipped with a brightly hued flower. Other than being a bit thicker and tougher than most, the petals appeared perfectly flower-like.
Weegee found more than a dozen different types. “Daisies, bluebells, yellowlips, murcockles, redbells, twoclovers—why Mudge, you’re beautiful. And you smell nice, too.”
“I don’t want to be beautiful! I don’t want to smell nice!” The apoplectic otter was dancing in an angry circle and waving his arms at the injustice of it all. Petals flew off him as he flailed at the air. He looked like a piece of a Rose Parade float making a break for freedom. Eventually he ran out of steam and settled down in a disconsolate lump—a very pretty lump, Jon-Tom mused.
“Woe is me. Wot’s to become o’ poor Mudge?”
“Take it easy.” Jon-Tom put an arm around a flowered shoulder. A happy bee buzzed busily atop one ear. “I’m sure this conditon will pass quickly just like all the others. And to think you’re always calling me a blooming idiot.”
Mudge let out a shriek and charged his friend, but Jon-Tom had anticipated the attack and dodged out of the way. Normally Mudge would have run him down, but he was so encumbered by his floral fur that Jon-Tom was able to elude him.
“Vicious,” he mumbled. “Vicious an’ evil an’ sarcastic, you grinnin’ ape.” He looked down at himself, spreading his arms. “Positively ’umiliatin’.”
“Look at it this way,” Jon-Tom told him from a safe distance, “if we have to hide from any pursuers you’re already perfectly camouflaged.”
