Roc and a Hard Place

by Piers Anthony

  The shark, of course, tried to spit the loathsome mass out, but the stuff stuck to the once clean teeth and festered on the roiling tongue. The putrefaction dripped into the mouth, sending up nauseating fumes. The shark tried to wash it out with water, but the surrounding river turned an obscene shade of noisome hue and threatened to curdle. Finally the shark plunged under the surface and swam away as fast as inhumanly possible, leaving a swath of bubbly retchings behind.

  Metria turned smoky and floated up through the water, leaving just enough flavor behind to guarantee that the shark would not soon be free of it. Stink horn was one of her favorite last resorts, reserved for only the most deserving opponents. Usually it was sufficient merely to blow the horn, and its foul smelling sound would drive most creatures away.

  But she had felt that the shark deserved more intimate treatment.

  Meanwhile the boat was wending its way across the river, and a courteous breeze was clearing the air of the lingering bouquet. The passengers were starting to look as if the miasma was, after all, bearable.

  Ichabod faced Metria as she returned. “Demoness, if you please—next time a monster threatens to engulf us—let it do so in peace.” But he managed a sickly smile.

  They reached the far bank and clambered to shore. The boat still reeked of horn, so they turned it loose to float disconsolately downstream. The vegetation along the banks wilted temporarily while the boat was passing.

  They set off across a field of posies that opened out before them. Each flower puffed itself up as they passed, enhancing its color and stiffening its petals, posing.

  Then a girl appeared before them. No, it was two children, the other a boy: evidently twins. “Who are you?” the girl asked boldly.

  Metria popped across to stand before the children. “I am the Demoness Metria, passing through on business. Who are you?”

  “I'm Abscissa,” the girl replied. “I travel along the X axis, because I have the X chromosome.”

  “Along the what?”

  “Horizontally.” A line appeared, and the girl suddenly jumped a brief distance to the side, without moving her legs.

  “I'm Ordinate,” the boy said. “I travel along the Y axis, because I have the Y chromosome.” A line appeared, and he jumped backwards without moving his legs. “Vertically.”

  “Geometrically and genetically speaking,” Ichabod remarked, intrigued. He brought out his little notebook. “These are most interesting talents. Whose children are you?”

  The two zipped back together. “We were supposed to be Grey Murphy and Princess Ivy's twins,” Abscissa said.

  “But they took too long to marry, so the stork dropped us off at an orphanage,” Ordinate said.

  “Well, shame on them,” Kim said. “I knew they were taking too long about it.”

  “And they should marry any time now,” Metria said. “Even if they don't know it.”

  The others glanced at her curiously, but the glances bounced off her without penetrating, because she wasn't paying attention.

  “Does the orphanage treat you well?” Arnolde inquired.

  “Oh, sure,” Abscissa said.

  “Of course, it can't keep us if we want to go out,” Ordinate said.

  “Together we can go anywhere we want to,” Abscissa said.

  “By projecting our coordinate map,” Ordinate said.

  “This is most interesting,” Ichabod said, making another note. “Instant travel by geometry.”

  “Where can you go?” Jenny asked.

  “Anywhere,” Abscissa said.

  “Such as to that tree?” Jenny asked, pointing to a distant nut and bolt tree beyond the flower field.

  “Sure,” Ordinate said. “Watch.”

  The two children concentrated. Lines appeared, marked X and Y, stretching all across the field, intersecting each other, forming a grid. A dot appeared beside the distant tree. The two children took each other's hands, and suddenly they were standing by the tree.

  Metria popped over to them. “It is really you?” she asked.

  “Sure, Demoness,” Abscissa answered.

  “Who else could it be?” Ordinate asked.

  “It might be an illusion.”

  “No, we don't have that magic,” Abscissa said, frowning cutely.

  “But it might be fun if we did,” Ordinate said.

  Metria popped back to the group—and found the children already there. “Say, you're good,” she said.

  “Of course,” Abscissa said. “We're always good.”

  “But we'd have been better with a family,” Ordinate said.

  “Maybe we'll find a family that needs twins,” Kim said.

  “Gee, that would be nice,” Abscissa said, clapping her hands girlishly together.

  “Will they let us eat eye scream every day and have pillow fights?” Ordinate asked.

  “More likely they'll make you eat pillows and have eye scream fights,” Dug said.

  “Dug!” Kim exclaimed indignantly. “Don't tease them like that.”

  But the children seemed thrilled with the notion. “That's better yet,” Abscissa said.

  “Food fights are great,” Ordinate agreed.

  “Now see what you've done,” Kim said to Dug. “You've given them a wicked notion. You're lucky you're not held in contempt of the Adult Conspiracy.”

  “Sorry 'bout that,” Dug said, not looking overwhelmed with remorse.

  “Well, we have to go now,” Abscissa said.

  “Because you folk are getting dull,” Ordinate said.

  “This is the nature of adults,” Ichabod said. But already the coordinate map was forming, and by the time he finished speaking, the twins were gone.

  They moved on. The token began tugging more strongly, so Metria knew they were getting close. Indeed, they spied some hoofprints, and followed them.

  “Young filly centaur,” Arnolde said.

  “How can you tell?” Jenny asked. “Couldn't it be a unicorn or something?”

  “No. Centaurs are especially heavy on the front feet, and tend to set them down farther apart, to brace the bodies for the use of the hands. Also, the configuration of the prints is distinct from that of unicorns.”

  All hoofprints looked alike to Metria, but it was clear that Arnolde knew what he was talking about. When one set of prints crossed another, he immediately pointed out the fresher ones, before Metria confirmed it with the tug of the token.

  Soon they found a bedraggled young filly centaur. Her blond hair hung lankly around her shoulders and juvenile breasts, and there were curse burrs tangled in her tail. She was eating bitter fruit, and looked miserable.

  “If you stare, you'll reveal yourself as an ignorant Mundane,” Kim whispered to Dug.

  “Uh, sure,” Dug agreed, dimming down the intensity of his stare. Like many young men, he seemed to be fascinated by nude nymphs and centaur fillies.

  “Chena Centaur?” Metria called.

  The filly heard her, looked—and bolted. In half a moment she was gone.

  “Hey!” Metria exclaimed. She floated after the creature.

  “I have a summons to serve.”

  But the centaur fled blindly, paying no attention. Finally Metria popped to a place in front of her, and assumed the form of a centaur. She didn't have the substance of a centaur, so was mostly smoky, but it did get the filly's attention and bring her to a halt.

  She stood there, panting, looking wildly about, ready to bolt again the moment she spied a feasible route.

  “Chena Centaur?” Metria asked again, sure that it was.

  “Why don't you leave me alone!” the filly demanded tearfully.

  “I can't. I have to serve you with this summons.” Metria held out the token.

  “Summons?”

  “For a trial. You see—”

  Chena whirled around and bolted back the way she had come. But that soon brought her up against the following party. She turned again to face Metria, her eyes showing desperate white. “I didn't mean any
harm!”

  Arnolde stepped forward. “My dear, the trial is not of you. You are being summonsed as a mere Juror.”

  The filly's head turned back and forth between Arnolde and Metria. “But—”

  “See, it says 'Juror' on it,” Metria said, holding the token up. “And your name. I must gather all the Jurors for the trial of Roxanne Roc. If you come with me, I will see that you get there safely. Several of these others in my party are similar summonsees.”

  “Me,” Kim said. “And him,” indicating Dug, “and her,” indicating Jenny Elf.

  The filly began to relax. “All right. I'm Chena.” She took the token.

  The day was getting on. “Let's find a place to camp,”

  Kim suggested. “Tomorrow is another day.”

  Metria realized that this was mostly to help get Chena settled, as the filly still looked pretty wild. So while Kim erased a shelter for the night. Jenny worked with a comb to get the tangles out of Chena's hair and tail, and to brush her coat down. It seemed funny to hear Jenny's muttered cursing, but it was the only way to get curse burrs off. Sammy Cat located food for them, and Dug brought it in. Arnolde and Ichabod talked with the filly, and began to get her story. Then Jenny started humming.

  On Centaur Isle a filly named Chena was foaled with a magic talent. The cursory magic inspection which all foals were given did not pick it up, so she lived for some time in blissful ignorance of her critical liability.

  Chena had a loving sire and dam, two older colt brothers, and many peer-group friends. She was contented in a completely normal way: She groused about having to spend so much time in centaur school, she was furious at herself when she missed the bull's-eye once during bowmanship practice, annoying the bull, and was mortified when one foot got sore.

  “Dam, I have foundered!” she cried as she limped home.

  “Don't use language like that,” her dam reproved her.

  “Laminitis. Say it correctly. Night mares founder; centaurs suffer inflictions of laminitis.”

  “Yes, dam dear,” Chena replied obediently.

  “Now, go to the doctor for some enchanted balm of Gilead to put on it.”

  “Enchanted!” Chena said, appalled. “But isn't that magic?”

  “Magic in itself is a useful and sometimes necessary thing,” her dam said sensibly. “In fact, it can even be endearing, in lesser species. Just so long as it is not too closely associated with a centaur.”

  “Oh.” Chena had thought, from the attitudes of her siblings and friends, that magic was somehow dirty. Now she understood the distinction between using magic and possessing magic, and realized that her friends were actually somewhat ignorant about it.

  So she went to the centaur doctor. “I need a bomb of Gilead,” she told him. “For my sore foot.”

  He smiled in that annoyingly superior manner of adults everywhere. “Which digit do you need detonated?”

  “My right forefoot,” she said, lifting it.

  “Indeed,” he said, examining it. “Well, here's the bomb.” He rubbed some thick fragrant ointment on it, and the pain exploded outward and dissipated.

  “Oh, thank you. Doctor!” she cried, dancing on the painfree foot.

  “And here is some more, in case the infliction of laminitis returns,” he said, giving her a vanilla envelope.

  Apart from routine things like that, Chena was a happy camper and homebody. Her main hobby was magic rocks, now that she knew that it was all right to use magic things.

  Some stones were pretty, and some were useful, but to her the most fascinating ones were magic. Some were known to everyone as magical, but were difficult for most folk to activate, such as charmstones and hearthstones. Others didn't seem magical at all, but Chena was able to divine their hidden powers.

  In fact, she didn't know it, but she had a magic talent. It was the ability to activate magic rocks. It was not her words or insights that did it, but her hidden talent.

  So she became a collector of magic stones. She always wore a pouch around her waist filled with different kinds of gems and pebbles. Rolling stones, for example, rolled without being pushed; they also, for some unknown reason, played music. Rock music, of course, and Stone Age melodies, and pebble tunes. They refused to be put in the same pouch as moss agate, not because it was soft and green, but because rolling stones gathered no moss. Then there were ope-als, which opened doors, and sapph-fires, which burned with blue fire, useful for igniting wood. Rubies would rub against her, and spinels would spin in dizzy circles.

  One rock in the pouch was neither lovely nor useful. It was grayish and ordinary, and seemed to have no magic.

  Chena kept it because she felt sorry for it.

  Then one unlucky day a centaur Elder saw Chena playing in the street with her pebbles. “Filly, what are you doing with those rocks?”

  “I'm studying them,” she replied, in some surprise. “I want to be a mineralogist when I grow up, and classify all the magic stones of Xanth.”

  “Magic stones?”

  “Yes. I am very good at recognizing them and figuring out how they work. See, here is a gall stone.”

  “A gall stone?”

  She held it up, and the stone made a galling remark.

  “What's it to you, horseface? You got a sore on your rump?”

  The Elder did not know very much about stones, but he did know something about magic. He took Chena at once to the Building of Magic Inspection to have her reexamined.

  The magic detection tool they had there was the kind that responded only to active magic. Naturally her talent was active only when she was around magic rocks, which was why it had not registered before. This time she had the stones in her pouch. “Show them your gall stone,” the Elder told her.

  She brought it out, and it made another galling remark. “I resent the implication, founderfoot,” it said bitterly.

  The instrument hummed, pointed directly at Chena, and indicated the use of a magic talent.

  That was enough. That same day, Chena was exiled from Centaur Isle for obscenity. She gathered her few possessions, bid tearful farewell to her sire and dam and siblings, who tried to pretend that she had not deeply shamed them, and quietly left. She held her head high, refusing to let any emotions show, because she was, after all, a centaur, even if she was a filly of tender years.

  Once she had been rafted to the mainland and was entirely free of the Isle and alone, she paused to release her pent-up emotions. To her surprise, she discovered not grief but anger.

  “I like my magic talent,” she said defiantly to the forest.

  “They can humiliate me in public and even exile me because of it, but they can't make me ashamed of it!” Suddenly the young filly's anger exploded in one sentence: “I wouldn't go back there even if I could!” But there was just a suggestion of a trace of a tear in an eye and a thought of a tremble on a lip. She was, after all, only eleven.

  Chena began to adapt to the wilderness, little by little, or even tiny by tiny, in the course of the next few hours, venturing slightly farther inland from the coast. She knew enough to avoid tangle trees and carnivorous grass—there were, after all, such things even on Centaur Isle, carefully fenced off and labeled as examples of what life was like elsewhere—and to be alert for stray dragons. With the aid of a chunk of magic searchstone, which her talent had enabled her to recognize and activate, she managed to search out pie trees and other food-supplying plants.

  She also discovered the full range of her talent, now that she no longer had to hide it from herself. For example, when she accidentally cut herself on a thorn bush, she was able to use a piece of bloodstone to stanch, the blood. If she wanted to go fishing, she could use a garnet to net gar. If she was thirsty, and didn't trust the local groundwater (love springs and hate springs weren't common, but why take chances)?, she could get lime juice from a limestone, olive juice from olivine, or several quarts of milk from milky quartz. Gradually Chena came to realize that her talent was more powerful than the C
entaur Isle Elders had suspected. It wasn't Sorceress or neo-Sorceress level, but it was still an excellent talent to have in the uncharted Xanth wilderness. They might have thought she would soon perish, alone, thus enabling them to get rid of her without having to execute her themselves, keeping their dirty hands clean. They would be disappointed, maybe.

  Chena did not take unnecessary chances. She was, after all, a centaur, and possessed of excellent intelligence and judgment. She stocked up on pies at the first pie tree she found, lest she not find another soon. That night she ate a banana cream pie, because it was too squishy to last long in her knapsack, and a key lime pie, which was already getting overripe. She carefully picked the keys out, leaving the limes alone, and was about to throw them away when she decided to save them. She might need those keys later. Ope-als couldn't open everything, after all.

  Now where was she to go? She had no idea. It wasn't as if she had planned this excursion. She couldn't stay long in this vicinity, because centaur hunting parties came here regularly. She didn't even dare use their trails, because she would be killed if any Isle centaur saw her. Unfortunately, she was sure that the farther she got from the Isle, the more dangerous the land would become. She had been allowed to take no weapon, which made her situation that much worse.

  She might be able to fashion a crude staff or club, but what she really needed was a good knife or bow.

  “I wish I had a really good bow and arrows,” she murmured. “And I wish I knew what to do.”

  Then she heard something. It sounded like trotting. Was it a unicorn—or a centaur? She quickly concealed herself in a place few folk would even think to look: behind a tangle tree. She could do this because she could see by the fresh bones that the tree had recently feasted. That meant it should be quiescent for another day or so. It was a nervy thing to do, but not as nervy as remaining in sight for a centaur archer to spot.