My parents asked if I wanted to stay there with them, but after Danny left I was too hyper and out-of-sorts to accept their offer. I just wanted to put Mae in her playpen by the sunny window in our living room, get out of my squashed traveling clothes, shower, look at the mail . . . be home.

It was a big mistake not to stay with the folks. As usual, my parents had treated Miss Mae James like the belle of the ball and she was not about to relinquish _that_ status willingly. In other words, she was a complete pill for the rest of the day. Welcome home, Mommy! We glared daggers at each other until she finally gave up in gasping fury and went to sleep in her crib with an impressive snarl on her face.

Later, Eliot called from downtown to say hello and how was it? When I told him what was going on, he said he'd come by in a couple of hours with dinner from our local horrible Chinese restaurant. I was so glad to hear his voice and know he'd be there to keep me company. Before that, the evening ahead had looked awfully long and forlorn.

My inner time clock was so whacked out that after his phone call, my whole system started shutting down whether I liked it or not. I knew it was nap time.

The phone woke me. When I opened my eyes, everything in the room was dark bevond shadows. The ringing was shrill and bitter. Alarmed, I looked at my watch and its green glow told me I had slept over three hours.

As I struggled off the couch, still drugged from sleep, I banged into Eliot who was coming in from the kitchen on tiptoes with a burbling Mae in his arms. I was so surprised to see him there that I let out a whoop that scared all of us.

«It's only me, Cullen! Get the phone!»

Danny was calling from his sister's house; his mother was very weak, but stable. The surgery would be performed in the morning if everything was still all right; her chances of making it were good.

«What do you mean by 'good', Dan?»

«Better than fifty-fifty, the doctor said. Did you call Eliot?»

«He's right here now. Are you okay, Danny?»

«No, Cul, I'm scared and I'm worried. But what can you expect?»

I loved him for saying that, and not, «Everything's okay. I'm tough as nails.» Because Danny _was_ tough, but this wasn't the time to play virile and swagger around. It was the time to pray and be scared and feel very small.

«Can I do anything for you, love?»

I felt his smile through the telephone. «Give Mae a big squeeze for me and tell her I'll be home soon. I'll call you tomorrow as soon as I know.»

We said good-bye without really wanting to, but there was nothing else to say. Eliot moved around the room, turning on lights.

«So do you want to talk first, or do you want to eat? I got spring rolls and monk's food.»

«Eliot, I'm sure glad you're here tonight.»

He nodded and smiled. «Me too. Let's eat and then you can tell me all about Milan. Was it marvelous? What did I miss?»

5

It was no longer hard to keep pace with Mr. Tracy. He walked with great difficulty on three legs and tired much too easily. The snow slowed him even more.

Pepsi and I wore rough parkas made out of perlmoos hides stitched crudely and haphazardly together. They were ugly as sin and smelled like pumpkin pie, but they kept us very warm and protected against storms which never seemed to end from one day to the next.

We were crossing the Brotzhool, Rondua's equivalent to the Alps. Thankfully, there was no real climbing involved – only slogging up and down mountain passes on snowshoes the size of road signs.

Here was our caravan – Mr. Tracy led the way, with four neg-nugs walking directly under him to protect them from the snow. I had no idea why they'd chosen to accompany us this far, but we were certainly glad of it. They were serious little fellows who didn't do a whole lot of joking around, but they kept careful watch over us in their fashion. Much more importantly, they knew every step of the way we were taking.

Mr. Tracy _let_ them lead us and that worried me greatly. Since the calamity with Martio and the loss of his leg, the dog's whole being flapped like a big flag in a small wind. Whether it was because he had lost his loved and trusted friends, or his leg, or simply the desire to go on, Mr. Tracy had become a kind of tired stranger who wasn't interested in very much of anything. Whenever we stopped for the night, he stayed by us physically but at the same time retreated so far into himself that we could barely reach him. And after many days and as many attempts, we didn't try.

On the other side of the Brotzhool was Jack Chili. Our job was to get there, face him, fight (I assumed) and try to defeat him. None of us said anything about that part of the journey, but who needed to? We had enough evidence of his capabilities. Plus, since he didn't have to pretend to be Martio the Camel anymore, Chili proved how creative he was when it came to malevolence.

An example? Every night the negnugs led us to different mountain huts where we could stay. They said Stastny Panenka built all of them when he and his Battle Dogs crossed the Brotzhool centuries before, while searching for the Perfumed Hammer. Both Pepsi and I were so weary when we heard that explanation that neither of us asked for an elaboration on either Stastny or his Hammer.

All of us were shocked the first time we entered one of these huts, because inside was a cozy, bustling fire in the fireplace and a beautiful meal laid out for us on a table in the middle of the room. But that hut, and all subsequent ones, was empty.

This happened for a week, at places ten or fifteen miles distant from each other. It was very nice, but also uncomfortable and too mysterious. I found myself eating fast and checking over my shoulder after a while.

On the ninth or tenth night, we opened a 'tvooden door on to much the same scene. This time, set in the middle of the dining table, was Mr. Tracy's leg – cooked, and garnished with sprigs of parsley.

A zeppelin began following us. One morning we walked out of a hut and there, incredibly, it was. The kind of dinosaur-like blimp that you see hovering over football stadiums when there's a big game on. Only this blimp flew so low and close to us that the whirr of its black motors could be clearly heard. It scared the hell out of me. How it ever managed to maneuver around in such tight, rocky quarters was impossible to say. But it did, and never went away from that day on. We had no idea who was flying it, or wrhy they were there.

Our singular band made it across the mountains intact, but we certainly weren't Hannibal and his boys thundering down out of the Alps on golden elephants, ripe for battle with whoever. Mr. Tracy had inconceivably lost his mystical hat and even Pepsi walked with a limp as a result of sliding halfway down an ice field one memorable morning.

We came off the last broad tongue of snow into one of those great green mountain meadows where fat calm cows grazed. The smell of high pine, ice and wet earth was everywhere – the wind's perfume and gift.

I lay down and put both arms over my face. When I woke half an hour later, I heard laughing and fast conversation. What welcome sounds after so many days of silence and worry! Propping myself up on my elbows, I turned to Pepsi and Mr. Tracy and saw they were talking with an _exquisite_ looking man in a tuxedo and white silk gloves. Even Mr. Tracy looked happier and less done in. He was nodding at whatever the stranger was saying. When Pepsi looked my way, his eyes were all little-boy joyous.

«Mom, Stastny Panenka's here with all of his men. They were the guys in the blimp. They're here to help us!»

The man got up and walked over. Taking my hand, he closed his eyes, kissed the tips of my fingers and bowed. What a gent.