Currant Events

by Piers Anthony

  "We have talents too, but they don't seem to apply here. Are you saying that you can see the correct path?"

  "No. I'm saying that if I encounter cloudy water, I can make it clear water. If I see a clear way, it becomes confused. I passed this way this morning; I must have changed it inadvertently. I should be able to change it back now."

  "That would be appreciated."

  He faced forward and marched. The way cleared as bushes hastily got out of his way and paths wriggled to avoid getting tromped when out of position. Suddenly there was no trouble finding the correct route.

  They followed Opaque north. Then he halted. "I believe we are through the confusion," he said. "The way ahead must be clear—so I will have a problem with it. Perhaps you should go ahead."

  "And leave you to stumble through alone, after your courtesy clearing it for us?" Clio asked. "There must be an alternative."

  "Reverse wood is risky," Sherlock murmured. "It might reverse his strength."

  "Do you have far to go?" Clio asked the ogre.

  "Not far. My sister Clarificant is home; she usually accompanies me to cancel my effect."

  That explained how he normally got around. "Suppose you close your eyes and follow us? We could lead you there."

  "That would be very kind of you."

  So Opaque closed his eyes and followed them, able to hear their footsteps between his tromps. Soon they came to the ogre's den, where an ogress waited. "Oh, you're safe!" she exclaimed, sounding relieved.

  "These nice humans assisted me," Opaque explained.

  "We cooperated," Clio said.

  "Come in," the ogress said. "I have a pot of meaty skulls boiling with fresh bones."

  "Thank you, no," Clio said quickly. "We must be on our way."

  They moved on. "Ogres are just like people," Sherlock remarked. "When you get to know them."

  "They are people. Just not quite like us."

  They came to a convenient shelter, and settled for the night. But before darkness quite closed, a gaggle of girls arrived. "Hi, old folk," one called. "We are Parsley, Sage, Rosemary, and Thyme. We'll be your cheerful company tonight."

  "Welcome," Clio said somewhat grimly. It seemed they were fated not to be alone.

  There was just one shelter, so they spent the night half buried in giggling girls. Sherlock did not seem nearly as annoyed as Clio would have liked. In the morning the girls had a tittering bare wash-up; Sherlock tried not to look, but they kept running around attracting his attention. Clio had to unfreak him more than once. The girls seemed innocent, but Clio wasn't sure that they had to be quite so open, boisterous, or active about their ablutions. There seemed to be a certain flirtation to it.

  But when it came to making a pot of porridge for breakfast, the girls were helpful. It was surprising how tasty their assorted spices made what would otherwise have been rather dull. They would surely all make good housewives, in due course.

  "So how was it, buried in spice girls?" she asked Sherlock once they were traveling again.

  "They were fun, but I knew they would never have stayed the night in the same shelter if you hadn't been there."

  "Me! You were the focus of their attentions."

  "Precisely. They regarded me as safe only because you were there. It's a game, to see how much you can show with impunity."

  Clio considered, and realized that he was probably correct. The girls could play because nothing could happen while an older woman was there. It was not a game Clio herself could play, without her curves. That bothered her more than she cared to admit.

  "Monster ahead," Drew reported.

  "Of what description?" Sherlock asked, a chip appearing in his hand.

  "Similar to Tristan Troll."

  "The trollway!" Clio exclaimed. "We are coming to it."

  Sure enough, in a moment they came to a troll standing guard by a wide paved avenue. A sign said STOP. PAY TROLL.

  "Why should we pay a troll anything?" Sherlock asked. "We're just passing through."

  "You're not familiar with the trollway? You have a nice experience coming. It will take us rapidly as far north as the arrow leads."

  So Sherlock dickered with the troll, and gave him a bag with a chip of reverse wood. Then they went to a bench beside the wide road and waited.

  "The trollway traverses the full length of Xanth," she explained. "It is a much faster mode of travel."

  "I am satisfied with slow travel, while with you."

  She was touched. "Oh, Sherlock!" She leaned over and kissed him. She loved being with him, but she still couldn't say those key words "I love you." While it might be an exaggeration to say that broke her heart, it nevertheless dented it somewhat.

  A vehicle appeared, rolling along the trollway from the south. It had metal wheels. A melody sounded as it came to a halt beside their bench. It was a tuneful trolley.

  A door opened in its side. They entered, climbing steps to reach the passenger compartment. When they were in, the troll driver cranked a handle, the door closed, and the trolley got moving again.

  There were four other people riding, two men and two women. Clio and Sherlock took seats near the front.

  Clio began to feel odd. It was as if something were touching her body, yet nothing was. She thought she felt a hand on her ankle, then one on her shoulder. When it squeezed her right thigh she jumped up "Oh!"

  "Stop it, Feelup!" one of the women snapped. And the invisible touches stopped.

  "What's going on?" Clio asked, facing back.

  The woman got up and came to her. "My brother's talent is to feel things remotely. He's not supposed to do it to people. Especially women. But he still tries to sneak it in." She glared at the man who had sat beside her. He stared down, not meeting her gaze.

  "Groping is known in Mundania, too," Sherlock murmured tolerantly. Then he jumped. "Hey! I got goosed!" It seemed he felt less tolerant.

  "Feelup!" the woman said severely. "I apologize for my brother's misbehavior. He just wears his feelings beyond his sleeves."

  "That's all right," Clio said, though it wasn't. She didn't like getting remotely groped by strange men.

  "My talent is related, only it touches inside rather than outside a person's body. I am Digit Alice, and I do healing massages."

  "Interesting," Clio said, though she was hoping the woman would go away. She sat down again.

  "I can heal a broken heart," Alice said proudly. "Let me show you." She came to stand behind Clio.

  Clio was about to protest, but Alice put her hands against her back and began to massage it. The touch was surprisingly therapeutic; the good feeling went right through her muscles and bones and touched her heart. The dent in it eased, then disappeared; her heart felt whole again. "Oh, thank you," she said.

  "It was the least I could do." Alice returned to her seat.

  The trolley squealed to a halt. "Demon Construction," the driver said with resignation. "We'll have to wait."

  "I wonder," Sherlock said. "Mind if I take a look around?"

  The troll shrugged. "We aren't going anywhere."

  Clio followed Sherlock out, wondering what he was up to. She saw signs of the demon's work all across the trollway, but no one was actually working. In fact no one was there.

  "I've seen this sort of thing in Mundania," Sherlock said. "They rush out to block off the access to the most important highway they can get at, then do nothing for six months. It is calculated to inconvenience the greatest number of people with the least effort. This demon must have studied the technique. But maybe we can clear the way."

  He walked to a line of orange cones that crossed the road. He took hold of one—and the others all jumped on him. He was buried in cones. Then they all reversed and flung themselves away from him. He got up, brushing himself off. "I walked into that one. I took them for pylons. Instead they're pile-ons. So I reversed them."

  Beyond the cones was a sleeping bull lying in a pile of ashes. "Bulldozer," Sherlock said. "Scraping the ash-fault
level. When he's working."

  Then a dragon appeared. They backed nervously away, but this dragon was rolling end over end as it fired out steam. It rolled over the ashes, leaving them flat. "And a steamroller," Sherlock said.

  It was clear beyond that. They returned to the trolley, and reported to the driver. "We can get through now."

  The troll nodded, and started the vehicle moving again. Suddenly a person as wide as four men dashed up. "Hey, you can't do that!" But he was too late; they were already through the section and beyond.

  "That was the four-man," the troll said, seeming privately satisfied. "He hates to let a trolley through before its time."

  The trolley rolled on. They gazed out the windows, but the scenery soon became dull.

  "I'm bored," the other man at the rear announced. "Let's pass the time by telling each other something about ourselves."

  Clio was bored too, now that she wasn't getting groped. She discovered that the seats would turn in place, so she could face back to talk with the others. "I'm amenable. I am Clio, and my talent is the wind-back. I can wind back recent events, but I seldom do it because others don't realize it has happened."

  "That's terrific," Alice said. "Does that mean that if the troll falls asleep and crashes us into a tree, you could unhappen it?"

  "Yes. But I would prefer that he not do that."

  Everyone laughed. A crack appeared in a window. The troll looked back, glowering. "You broke the ice. Stop that or I'll put you off the trolley."

  So the windows were made of panes of ice. Clio wound it back until the crack disappeared, then stopped her statement at "Yes." That thawed the ice without breaking it, and the window merely sweated a little. No one except the dragons realized that it had happened. Actually they seemed to be asleep.

  "I am Sherlock," Sherlock said. "My talent is working with reverse wood. That has a negative effect on the magic of other folk, so I don't invoke it often."

  "Could you reverse my brother's talent?" Alice asked.

  "I doubt it. Reverse wood doesn't necessarily reverse in the way one expects. I think it best not to gamble."

  "I am Ken," the other man said. "I have the talent of telling the opposite of the future. Therefore I seldom try to use it, as my predictions never come true."

  "Nevertheless, I am curious," Clio said. "What's my unfuture?"

  Ken looked at her, his gaze uncomfortably penetrating. "I see the promise of great happiness, followed by disaster."

  "But if that's the opposite, then I may be threatened with great sadness, followed by success."

  "You may," Ken agreed. "But it's like reverse wood: my visions aren't always wrong in the way you expect. Don't trust it."

  That was a fair warning, but she was relieved. It suggested that however difficult things might become, they would work out in the end.

  "I am Crystal," the other woman said. "My talent is that of seeing ourselves as others see us."

  "Don't you mean seeing yourself as others see you?" Clio asked.

  "No, though that is part of it. Touch my hand."

  Clio reached out to take Crystal's hand. Suddenly she became aware of herself in a new and not wholly comfortable way. Feelup saw her as a largely sexless object not worth feeling, considering his sister's rebuke. Ken saw her as a pretty face without a body. Alice saw her as a somewhat pushy person who was unlikely to rate either disaster or success. Crystal herself saw her as probably a fraud who claimed a powerful talent that could never actually be demonstrated to others: how convenient. And Sherlock saw her as a significant, wonderful creature he wished he could somehow be worthy of associating with. He did love her, not caring at all about her lack of curves, but knew he didn't deserve her.

  "Oh!" she said, letting go of the hand.

  "Now you know," Crystal said. "It can be cruel."

  Much more than that! "Thank you for the demonstration," Clio said faintly.

  "You are welcome." There was a polite hint of a sneer in the tone. The woman knew she had set her back.

  Then Crystal's face went blank for a moment, turned awed, and finally appalled. "Is something wrong?" Ken asked.

  "No." But it was obviously a lie.

  Then Clio had a notion. Drew!

  "I just couldn't resist," the little dragon said to her alone. "She was so arrogant in her ignorance, I just had to tell her the truth."

  What truth?

  "That your talent is real, and you are the Muse of History."

  Well, it was the truth, and maybe deserved. But after that the conversation lagged, and she was glad when their stop came.

  Clio and Sherlock got off, while the others rode the trolley on north. The day was late; they had ridden longer than it had seemed. "We are at a truck stop," Sherlock said.

  That was apparent. There were a number of trucks on the trollway, ranging from little to monstrous, and every one of them squealed to a stop at the stop: pay troll station before going on. They looked mundane. What were mundane vehicles doing here in the middle of Xanth? Then she realized that this probably represented a shortcut for the Mundanes, which they used without understanding its nature. All Mundanes cared about was getting their dull work done so they could eat, sleep, and relax. The trolls didn't care, as long as they were paid. Trolls were a lot like Mundanes, actually.

  "Perhaps we should stay the night here," Sherlock suggested, "and brace Xanth in the morning."

  "That appeals," Clio agreed. She was still shaken by the revelation of how others saw her; she had had no idea there were so many negatives. She knew that their reactions were really normal, because they didn't know her, but still it wasn't a pleasant experience.

  Sherlock negotiated with the troll in charge of the truck stop for a room for the night. It turned out that only one was available, the one no one else wanted, because it was on the sewer side: where the garbage and refuse of the passing travelers were piled. There was a smell. But Clio just wanted a place where she could be alone to sort out her feelings, and urged him to take it.

  The room itself was pleasant, with a toilet and a type of a magic mirror that showed a series of entertaining pictures. There was a magic machine that provided milkweed pods and fairly fresh pies. Satisfied, they lay on the big soft bed and watched. The trolls were surprisingly sophisticated in their accommodations.

  "Sherlock, we're alone," she said. "The dragons don't count, in this respect."

  "We're alone," he agreed. "And it's dark."

  They kissed, and kissed again, needing no more than the sense of touch. It was wonderful. They removed their clothing and embraced. This time they were really going to do it; she was determined not to balk, and knew he felt the same.

  Then something awful happened. There was a horrible roaring and squealing sound, and the wall crashed in, crushing them.

  She unwound it instantly. As it played backward she saw that it was a huge lighted truck. Then the wall reverted to solid and the sound faded; it had been there before, getting louder, but they had not noticed. When she had wound it far enough back to provide sufficient time, she stopped it.

  They were hugging each other on the bed, bare in the darkness. She jerked her head away from his. "Sherlock! Grab your clothes and get out of here immediately. I'll follow."

  He didn't question her. He rolled off the bed, feeling for his clothing, and she did the same, but neither could find anything in the confusion. There was a small light by the door; they stumbled toward it, opened it, and ran outside.

  The sound was louder here, and increasing. They ran to the sewer, tumbling in as the truck crashed into the room. Everything exploded, but they were safe; it had missed them.

  In little more than an instant, trolls were everywhere, organizing the recovery and cleanup. "The driver got caught by a trollway hypnosis spell," one said, not seeming to notice their stinking nakedness. "Lost con-troll. It happens. We'll get you another room." Trolls weren't much for emotion or concern for lives.

  Soon they were in another room;
it seemed these could be found when necessary. They washed thoroughly and went to bed again. But the mood had been shattered.

  "My Danger of the Day," Clio said ruefully. "I had forgotten about that, and I shouldn't have."

  "I gather we were actually caught by it, and you wound it back?"

  "I did. Sherlock, the dangers are getting worse. Yesterday I almost couldn't get back from Mundania. Today I almost got crushed. I'm afraid my end is approaching. I need to complete my mission soon, or I won't survive the effort."

  "There can't be much more," he said. "I'll help all I can."

  "Your help has been wonderful. But you can't fight my curse. This time it almost took you out too."

  "I can't think of anyone I'd rather expire with."

  He had such a positive outlook. "I think you should reconsider your concern," she said. "I'm sure in time I'll be able to say the words you want. I think I just need to complete my mission first."

  "Perhaps so."

  "I'm too overwrought to sleep."

  He took her hand, and his touch had a marvelously pacifying effect. She would have wondered about that if she hadn't been so tired.

  Holding hands, they slept.

  Next day they left the truck stop and followed the blue arrow to the edge of the Region of Water. The red time arrow was now nearing its target; they were on schedule.

  This was a waterscape more than a landscape, with puddles, pools, ponds, and lakes. They had to bargain to get a small boat so they could continue. Mermaids sported in the water, thrashing their tails to lift their upper torsos well clear of the surface so they could see and be seen. Sherlock managed not to freak out—after all, mermaids had no panties—but the sights did give him pause. Clio stifled her irritation; she couldn't blame mermaids for being what they were, which was splendid halves of women.

  As the red arrow connected to its base, they came to an island. There were a nondescript but oddly appealing young man, a pretty young woman of about sixteen, and a child. They seemed to be stranded.

  "A boat!" the young woman cried, waving. She looked somehow familiar. "Rescue!"

  Clio concentrated, and got it. "Surprise Golem!" and her companion was Umlaut, the formerly nonexistent man; she had written a whole volume about him. The child was unfamiliar; she looked to be about five and would have been cute without a rebellious curl to her lip. No, it wasn't rebellion, it was independence.