Without hesitation, Mikhail took it.
Nothing happened.
"Not all reversals are immediately apparent," Sherlock said. "Let me get her shirt off so you can kiss her again."
"I'll help!"
They tackled the job as before, while Clio wondered. How could the chip have no effect? Was it real reverse wood?
Noi was now without the shirt. Mikhail kissed her. She woke.
Mikhail remained.
"Mikhail!" Noi exclaimed, sitting up. They kissed again.
Sherlock glanced at Clio, nodding. It had worked.
Before they could celebrate, an awful smell coalesced around them. It was like rotten fruit, only worse.
Noi paused in her kissing. "That smells like ripe duran."
"Duran?" Clio asked, trying not to gag. "Is it poisonous?"
"No, it's a fruit that tastes better than it smells."
Then a little girl appeared, walking along the path. She held a piece of fruit, from which she was nibbling. As she approached, the smell intensified. Noi was right: the awful smell was from the fruit.
Clio happened to have a little bag in her pocket that had a secure seal. She rushed to intercept the girl. "Please—let me put that away for you," she gasped. She almost snatched the piece of fruit and jammed it in the bag, closing it tight.
The smell alleviated, now that its source was gone. She was able to breathe again. She inhaled enough to speak in a normal manner. "Hello. I am Clio. Who are you?"
"Malinee. I'm lost."
Another lost soul! And surely from the Asia section of Mundania, by the look of her. "Where do you live?"
"Thailand."
"That's where I live," Noi said.
"Is it by chance a peninsula?" Sherlock asked.
"Oh, yes. Why?"
"Peninsulas can be avenues." He didn't clarify further, and the girl did not inquire. "I'm not sure we can get you back to Thailand, but would you like to travel with a dragon?"
"A dragon!" Malinee said, delighted. She spied the dragon, who was waiting down the path, and ran to give its center neck a hug. It was evidently her type of dragon.
Sherlock turned to Mikhail and Noi. "How would the two of you like to take a long walk around the peninsula of Xanth, conducting a dragon to where the folk will be able to help it get settled? Taking Malinee along?"
"Why not?" Mikhail asked. "Suddenly everything is wonderful."
"Like a honeymoon," Noi agreed blissfully.
Clio gave them general directions, and the group started off, Malinee riding the dragon. They would surely get there safely.
"That worked out rather well," Sherlock said.
"It was as though the four of them were meant for each other," Clio agreed. "But you know—"
"That none of them will be able to return to their Mundane peninsulas," he said. "I thought it best not to discuss that aspect." He meant that some who died in Mundania came thereafter to Xanth.
"Actually some people find Xanth alive."
"And some don't. But with the fickleness of peninsular connections, they can't expect to return regardless. So it seems best for them to make their homes in Xanth. In time they should develop magic talents, as I did."
"As you did," she agreed. "It has been quite useful."
"Now we are four again. But I wonder: was this another part of your quest? I can't see that you gained or lost anything from the interaction, apart from the satisfaction of helping three people and a dragon find their places."
Clio considered. "I am of course glad to have helped them. I'm sure they'll all become good citizens of Xanth, in their fashions, including the dragon."
"The dragon should be something of a novelty, even among dragons. Three heads!"
"It has been a season for placing dragons," she said, glancing down at Drew in her pocket. "But it is true: this does not seem to have been guided by the compass."
"Is it pointing anywhere now?"
She glanced at her wrist. The blue arrow was pointing toward the pocket where she had put the bag. "Oh—I forgot to return the fruit to Malinee."
"I doubt she cares. She's got a dragon now."
"But what am I to do with this? The smell is atrocious, and it's unlikely to improve with time."
"Try leaving it somewhere."
She set the bag somewhat gingerly at the base of a tree. But as she walked away from it, the blue arrow on her wrist swung around to orient on it.
"That's what I thought," Sherlock said. "This was a compass episode. For the duran."
"But what would I ever want with such a vile smelling thing?"
"I don't know. But I suspect we'll find out, in due course."
"In due course," she agreed weakly.
11
Bad Dreams
There was no suitable campsite, but day was ending, so they stopped by a river and Sherlock conjured a number of reverse wood chips to make a protective ring around them. Then he foraged for blankets and pies, while Clio consulted with the dragons. There were dangerous creatures in the vicinity, but none that wouldn't be stopped by the reverse wood.
She got busy with brush and a fragment of firewood she found, and it made a fire to heat the pies. They ate and settled down for the night, guarded by the dragons' extended awareness.
"This is our first night together alone in the open," she said. "I find it awkward."
"I will sleep elsewhere, if you wish. I do not wish to embarrass you."
"Please. I think I need to speak with a certain candor. The compass led me to you, and keeps me with you. I am beginning to wonder whether we are intended to associate longer."
"Perhaps as long as it takes to complete your mission, so you can return to Mount Parnassus."
This was twice as difficult as she had imagined. "Would it bother you if it turned out to be longer than that?"
He paused before answering. "No."
"I don't mean to presume. But you are a nice man, and I like your company."
"Thank you."
"Would you by any chance be amenable to residing on Mount Parnassus?"
"You mean to stay with you?"
"Yes."
He thought about it. "I would want to be useful. I'm not sure that there is much use for reverse wood there."
"Surely uses could be found."
"You, as I understand it, are eternal. I am already middle-aged, and would fade out before too long on your scale."
"Not if you ate a leaf from the Tree of Life. You would become eternal too."
He gazed at her in the gloom. "I fear a misunderstanding. May I be blunt?"
"By all means."
"I thought your interest in me was as a person who can be useful as a traveling companion. Is it more?"
"Yes."
"I have liabilities that make me doubt. I am unprepossessing."
"As I come to know you, I find qualities that impress me."
"I am middle-aged."
"I am older."
"I am black."
"I don't understand."
"That is perhaps an appealing thing about you. Neither did you understand my remark about the disciplinary board enjoying spanking the princess."
"That's true. Do you care to explain?"
"The princess was a buxom lass. There are men who might like to touch her bottom under the pretext of discipline. Spanking has a special reputation when it applies to big girls."
"I still don't understand."
"Because you have never been exposed to the baser human instincts. That's an engaging quality."
Clio was frustrated by her inability to decipher this. She shifted to the other confusion. "What is this about your being black? All members of the Black Wave are."
"I was an adult when we migrated from Mundania to Xanth. My appreciation of particular aspects of human nature was fairly well set. You might say I remain Mundane in a certain fundamental manner, despite my recent development of a magic talent. It affects my outlook."
"What outlook
is this?"
"As a general rule, in Mundania, white folk are not interested in black folk unless there is something specific to be obtained from them. Such as money, or entertainment, or brute labor on less pleasant chores. So it seems to me that you would not be interested in me as anything other than a temporary assistant."
"Because of your color?" she asked incredulously.
"Yes."
"I truly don't understand."
"You are saying that my liabilities are no bar to a more personal relationship?
"What liabilities?"
Sherlock shrugged. "I think you are serious. But my mundane background doubts."
Almost, she understood. "I have my own liability."
He smiled. "Not that I know of."
Now at last she had the courage. "My curves aren't real."
"It's dark now, but they certainly look real by daylight."
"I was cursed to have no curves of my own, but to find some. I found a nymph bark that provides me a shape I otherwise lack."
"I don't understand."
She laughed. "It's nice that this time it is you who is baffled. I'll show you."
"I can't see you in this light."
"Perhaps that helps." She nerved herself before she could change her mind again, took off her clothing, then stripped the bark. Now she was naked. She was being bolder than she ever had been in her life, but now seemed to be the time. "Give me your hand."
"I don't understand," he repeated.
She found his hand in the dark and brought it to her torso. "This is my body. As you can surely feel, it has no curves."
"That can't be you!"
"It is me. Establish it."
"May I?"
"Yes."
He sat up and used both hands, running them over her bare body. "I don't believe it."
"It is nevertheless true. I will leave the bark off in the morning, if you wish to verify it by daylight."
He abruptly withdrew. "No need."
She had turned him off, as she had feared. "I apologize for misrepresenting myself. It was foolish vanity."
"Please don't."
She was silent. She had done what she had to do, and paid the price she had to pay. She put the bark back on, and her clothing. Then she settled miserably to sleep.
Sherlock said nothing in the morning. He went about his business as usual, fetching in pies for breakfast. They ate, and organized for the day's walk. The blue arrow pointed on along the trail, and the red arrow was back, with little time remaining. They were close to another contact.
It wasn't long before they found it. Five walking skeletons appeared, coming toward them. Their hollow eyes spied the two, and they rattled their bones menacingly.
"Marrow Bones and Gracile Ossein are nice folk," Clio murmured. "Somehow I don't think these ones are." In fact, this seemed to be her Danger of the Day.
The skeletons charged, grinning with their skull faces, reaching out with their bone fingers. Sherlock stepped in front of Clio, a chip of wood appearing in his hand. He flipped it at the nearest skeleton. It touched, and the skeleton transformed into a mild-looking man. The man looked surprised.
The other skeletons closed in. Sherlock flipped more chips, and they became inoffensive men and women.
"Who are you?" Clio demanded.
"We're actors in dreams," one man said. "I think we need to find the casting agency for good dreams."
"Dreams! What are you doing out here in Xanth, by daylight?"
"We don't know. We were going to a casting call, but lost our way."
"Bad dreams!" Sherlock said. "You're from the gourd!"
"Yes. But we don't want to act in that kind anymore."
"You'll have to find a daymare," Clio said. "They know where the good dreams are made."
"We'll find one," the man agreed, and led the group on down the trail. One of their hands brushed Clio's hand, and passed through it; he was a man of no substance. That made sense, as the creatures of the dream realm normally had no reality in the physical realm.
"How did they get out?" Sherlock asked.
Clio glanced at the compass. The red arrow was on its mark. "I think that's for us to discover. There must be a hole in the dream framework."
"There must be. I've never heard of this happening before."
"Things do go wrong on occasion." She was privately glad that they were able to talk about things. She had been afraid that after her revelation of the night Sherlock would find some pretext to depart, and she could hardly blame him. Yet she had had to tell him the truth some time.
"Is this something your compass suggests you need to deal with?"
"It did point us toward the skeletons, and the time was when they appeared. I suppose it could be coincidence."
"I doubt it. The compass seems to have its own mind."
She smiled with understanding. "It does."
"What does it say now?"
She looked. "Another short deadline, down the path."
"Should we flee it?"
"No. I have to complete my mission as soon as possible."
"There is a time limit?"
"There may be."
"Something is coming," Drew said.
Then a ghost appeared. It was a wild frightening one, drifting above the path, its sheet flapping. It spied them with its vacant eye-holes and floated menacingly toward them.
"I have a weird notion," Sherlock said. "Is it possible that we aren't supposed to nullify the bad dreams? All they can do is scare us, and frankly, I'm not scared."
"But they could do mischief to others. I think we'd better nullify them."
"As you wish." He flipped a chip at the ghost, which became a flat soft children's bedsheet, decorated with cute animals, and drifted away.
"You mentioned a time limit," Sherlock said as they proceeded on along the trail. "Is this something I should know about?"
"Yes, probably. It's—"
"More coming," Drew said.
Then a swarm of ugly things appeared. They were indescribable, but had aspects of squashed caterpillars with messy tentacles and drooling mouths. "Get a load of this!" one exclaimed. "An old black man and a sexy slut! Charge!"
"Oh, my," Clio said. "Those are ghastlies. They're dirty and horrible to touch, and their mouths are worse."
"There are too many to catch with chips," Sherlock said.
"Just get out of their way, lest—" She was too late; they were already swarming over the two of them.
"Lest?" he asked as he shook them off.
"Lest they defecate on us."
Indeed, they were already dripping with stink. "Ugh!"
The ghastlies tumbled on down the path, looking for others to besmirch.
"This is getting out of hand," Clio said.
"Out of something, anyway." He tried to brush off some of the guano, but it just smeared worse. Clio was no better off; she feared her hair would never be the same. Even the two little dragons had been soiled.
"We've got to find a way to plug that leak," Clio said.
"I agree. But first I'd like to get clean."
"Yes! There's a stream nearby; we'll wash there."
They slogged down to the stream. "We'll have to strip."
"I know it," she agreed. "It isn't as though we have physical secrets from each other."
They pulled off their clothing, and Clio also removed the nymph bark, which had gotten grimed too. They splashed water on themselves, washing off the clinging filth. The two dragons dived under the surface and came up again, shaking their wings; they weren't any happier about the foulness. Sherlock helped her with her hair, which she had to let down and immerse in the water, slowly rinsing it.
"I wonder," he said.
"Yes?"
"If those were more escapees from the dream realm, how could their refuse be solid?"
"That's an excellent question. It shouldn't be. It should be more apparent than real."
The remaining gook disappeared. "We figured
it out, and it went," Sherlock said. "It was all in our minds."
She tried to laugh. "I never realized my mind could be so dirty."
"We were fooled too," Drew said, chagrined.
Sherlock looked around. "Uh-oh."
"More horrors?" she asked, alarmed.
"Not exactly. It's that I think we lost our clothes."
She checked. Everything was gone. "The stream must have carried them away while we were distracted. We weren't really dirty; we merely thought we were. But the water is real, and it acted as water does. We'll have to hurry to recover them."
"I'll do it." He waded downstream, only to pause before getting far. "Uh-oh," he repeated.
"I hate that expression! What is it?"
"There's a waterfall. Our clothes are gone."
"How can there be a waterfall? This is level land."
But there was. The water tumbled far down into a crevice and vanished. There was no hope of recovering their things.
"We can look for them," Drew said.
"They would be too heavy for you to carry."
"So the ghastlies may not have had substance," Sherlock said. "And their mess wasn't real. But it fooled us into making mischief for ourselves."
"We'll have to find clothing trees," she said. "Fortunately they are fairly common in this region."
"Will any have another nymph bark?"
She had lost that too! "I'm afraid not. You will have to bear with me as I am."
"This I am satisfied to do."
For how long, she wondered. Still, she was glad she had told him about the nymph bark, because it had prepared him for the disappointment of her real body.
They found a pant bush with a number of pants on it, each decorated with bounding catlike animals. They were even marked HIS and HERS. She had never quite figured out how such labels came to be; surely plants weren't literate. They picked and donned pants as appropriate.
There was an urgent grunting sound, as of some hot animal breathing hard, followed by a higher pitched series of gasps. Both of them looked around, but there was nothing in view. The sounds were coming from very close, however. In fact—
"It's from the pants!" she exclaimed, hastily getting out of hers. "They're panting!"
"We missed the pun," he said ruefully, getting out of his. "Pant-hers, pant-his. Like rutting felines."
"As if we haven't been humiliated enough."
Currant Events Page 18
