The emperor threw up his hands, literally. “You win,” he told the three visitors. “We will honor the terms of the agreement. We are, after all, civilized folk, unlike our enemies.”
Floyd, Jonathan, and the captain had the sense not to argue.
That was it. The Lilliputians set about fetching big (to them) barrels of fresh water, which they mounted on wheels and trundled slowly toward the ship. Other crews set about fashioning a raft that would support the three men and the barrels. Others went to inform the Sirens that the men must be allowed to return safely to their ship. They even enlisted some Sirens to haul the raft.
Meanwhile the captain, Jonathan, and Floyd were allowed to relax. Little maidens were soon coming to perch on their laps with tidbits as they sat on the ground. The men were hardly in a position to object; the girls were young and fair, and wore rather scant halters and skirts. They might be as small as dolls, but they were anatomically correct and animated dolls. Some even sat on big male hands, and kicked their legs up prettily. It was almost as if they enjoyed showing off their bodies to men they knew could never take advantage of them. Or maybe they simply liked to tease.
Just one girl came to Floyd: the emperor’s daughter, Temperance. She must have told the others to stay clear. She signaled, and he reached down carefully with his flat hand. She set her pert posterior on it and pulled up his thumb to hold on to. He lifted her up to the level of his face, her lovely legs dangling over the edge. From a foot away she spoke, and Faux invisibly translated.
“I greet you, wonderful tale teller.”
“I return the greeting.” He hesitated. “What may I call you, Princess?” He knew her name, but didn’t want to admit that Faux had given it to him.
She laughed. “Temperance. But Truly will do.”
Oho! “Then hello, Truly.”
“I loved your story,” she said. “I felt as if I were right in it myself.” She fixed his right eye with her intense gaze. “Tell me the truth: was I really the model for the heroine?”
“You were,” Floyd said. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“You saw down my blouse.”
“I did,” he admitted. “I was impressed.”
“Clearly so, as with the djinn.” She made a moue. “I hope our men don’t catch on how we run their lives via their undisciplined eyeballs. You gave away some secrets.”
“I apologize. I needed to tell an effective story.”
“I forgive you. Bring me close and I’ll kiss you.”
He brought her carefully right up to his face, and she leaned forward in exactly the manner Truly had leaned toward Longmire in the tale and put her delicious little lips to his huge ones. A tiny kiss, but it was like miniature heaven.
“I have a favor to ask,” she said, leaning back and flexing her legs. She did not seem to be wearing much under her skirt.
“Anything!” He knew she was managing him the same way as Truly had managed the knight in the story, but how could he resist?
“I’d like to tour your ship. I and my friends. It would be a fine adventure, and we’re really curious how giant folk like you manage.”
“But the ship is so much bigger! If you fell—”
She silenced him with another kiss. “We would need guides, of course. Big men to carry us and keep us safe. To protect us. One man per visitor.”
Floyd opened his mouth to protest again, but she extended a delicate foot and touched his lip with her jewel-like toes. He wasn’t sure whether it was the touch or the sight beyond the foot, but it effectively shut him up. The next thing he knew he was consulting with the captain.
When the captain tried to protest, his own contingent of petite maidens added their pleas in their appealing fashion, and he too was silenced. Jonathan smiled, and Floyd suspected that the writer proffered his own protest merely to evoke a similar silencing. The thing about being managed by pretty girls of any size was that the men hardly minded it, even when they knew.
So in due course the royal maidens got to tour the ship. The sailors turned out to be happy to cooperate, each one carrying a dainty damsel in his hand and going where she directed, showing her the sights. Each was rewarded by smiles and supposedly accidental flashes, showing him other sights, and a mini kiss at the conclusion.
On the following days there were other visiting contingents, ordinary Lilliputians male and female, and the Emperor himself joined Floyd for a tour. “What did you have to promise your daughter to get her to set this up?” Floyd inquired.
The Emperor scowled. “Peace with the neighbors,” he grumbled. “For now.”
At the end of the week, the ship had been repaired, the water kegs were aboard, and every Lilliputian who wanted to had toured the giant ship. Even some Sirens had come aboard, silently, their bare bodies carried by sailors since they could not walk on their flukes. They had, it seemed, set a price on their pacifism: to share the action. Some even got to see the closed cabins of the officers, and to swing on their hammocks. There seemed to be quite a bit of swinging at times. Even the chained oarsmen got some visits, as the Sirens admired their muscles, and more. It seemed that a single Siren could entertain and be entertained by a number of men, when she chose, and she did not have to bite with her sharp teeth when she kissed. It also seemed that Sirens liked warm live men almost as much as cold dead men. It was a novel experience for all.
And all the girls liked Old Blackie, and he liked them. Something about girls and horses. They fed him tiny treats and brushed out his mane one hair at a time and pretended they were riding atop him. He enjoyed it as much as they did.
“My writer’s block is definitely over,” Jonathan said with satisfaction. “I know I will be writing about these little folk. Not the story we told them; I will devise a greater one about them.” The pert maiden on his shoulder whispered into his ear. “Complimentary, I’m sure, for the most part.” She kissed the ear, rewarding him.
Old Blackie whinnied. “And maybe one about horses, too,” Jonathan agreed in good humor.
Then it was time to go. The hull had been repaired, the ship was free of the sand, and well supplied for the resumption of the voyage. Some sailors seemed almost sad to depart these treacherous waters, oddly. Floyd echoed their reluctance. He had come to know Truly reasonably well, and liked her a lot, and she seemed to like him. If only she hadn’t been a princess, and so small!
“What must be, must be,” she told him, with a farewell kiss that fairly melted his upper lip. Then she was on her way back to the island, a likely future queen. She did not actually need boots or a djinn to prevail.
The ship rowed out to deep water with alacrity; the oarsmen had new vigor, and not only from their week’s layoff. The wind freshened, and the sails were set. They were on their way.
Floyd was resting in his cabin, emotionally unwinding. What an adventure it had been! He would certainly have a tale to tell when he finally got home. But he missed Temperance.
The door opened, and a woman entered. She had glorious golden hair, classic features, and a trim yet shapely figure. She looked somehow familiar. Especially her low loose blouse and short skirt.
Then he recognized her. “Truly!” Or Temperance, as the case might be.
“Floyd!” she breathed, and merged into his embrace. She kissed him, and it was more than a little bit of heaven. “I had to come to you.”
“But you’re my size!” he said. That was why he hadn’t identified her at first. “And how did you reach the ship? We’re hours on our way.”
“With magic, all things are possible,” she said.
“And you’re speaking my language!” Then he thought of something. “Am I dreaming?”
She naughtily pinched his bottom. “You’re awake. Otherwise the pinch would have ended your sleep.”
That seemed to be true. Then he thought of something else. “Faux!”
“Oh, phooey,” she swore. “I didn’t even get you into bed yet.”
Not that she was likely to have done tha
t, to his frustration. “But why?”
“I’m a hopeless tease. Now you have three girlfriends to pine for. Some day you will have to choose between them. I won’t make it easy.”
That sobered him. Indeed, he wasn’t sure which one he would choose.
Chapter 17: Xanadu
The ship sailed ever onward, propelled by winds both fierce and frail.
When the gusts slackened, the oarsmen were put to work. Floyd, who had since admired the workers’ muscular shoulders, surprised one and all by volunteering to do oar work, thus relieving one of the other men, most of whom were glad to have a day or two off.
Although Floyd put his all into each stroke, it was obvious he was the weak link. Indeed, the captain was forced to relieve another rowman on the opposite side, lest they row in circles. Normally, the captain would have none of such foolishness, but he owed a debt to the young storyteller.
At a port in Baleeira, Portugal, Jonathan Swift disembarked with his new friend, another writer by the name of Daniel Defoe, who had been discreetly stowed upon the same ship. Unlike Swift, Defoe’s voyage had been designed to be somewhat of a vacation from his work as a pamphleteer, a job that required not only writing but publishing and distributing; instead, upon being shipwrecked and stranded and hearing word of the island’s most unusual inhabitants, Daniel had immediately sealed himself in his cabin and set about writing something new. Indeed, it was the opening scenes to be a book he would later call Robinson Crusoe, about another type of shipwreck. Upon hearing word of another writer feverishly setting ink to parchment, Swift sought out Defoe, only to discover that, although each was writing their own castaway story, both tales were vastly different. Swift and Defoe became fast friends, but history would not record this fleeting friendship, or of their true inspiration. Both would release stories of shipwrecks and castaways, although Defoe would beat Swift to it by a number of years. Both books would go on, according to Faux who had some glimpse of the future, to become worldwide phenomenons. For centuries to come.
Later, as the winds slackened and the days turned to weeks, young Floyd grew stronger and stronger. So strong that the captain finally put the second oarsman to work opposite Floyd. As the weeks turned to months, Floyd’s own shoulders began to fill out, much to Faux’s apparent delight.
They made their way south, docking at many African ports, many of them run by Portuguese and Dutch traders. Floyd was dismayed to see that many of these companies traded in human flesh; that was, slaves. Floyd didn’t think that was right, nor did many of his fellow passengers, and with the help of Faux and her magical African counterparts, they disrupted and destroyed many of the slave trader bases. Floyd himself led some of the raids, having long since learned the art of the sword from some of the fighting men on board his ship.
When the ship wasn’t docked, and when the winds were strong, Faux taught Floyd how to read. The young man learned easily enough, although sometimes, perplexedly, he saw the words backwards. Either way, he got the hang of it, and Faux presented to him many of her best works, all of which had been hidden within a secret room accessed through a small pendant she wore around her neck. She merely had to open the pendant, and then she was gone, winking from view, leaving Floyd confused and disoriented, only to return with more books for him to read. And read he did, as many books as she could bring him.
The ship rounded Cape Horn, a recent Dutch settlement, and headed north along the shores of Africa’s east coast. There, Floyd and company had many more adventurers, and made many friends and some enemies with the kingdoms along the coast. Floyd could spend days or weeks—heck, years—watching the endless parade of beautiful and massive animals that moved through the brush.
And so, it was with great reluctance that the ship pushed across to what Floyd had come to know as the Middle East, as in halfway to the Far East, which was ultimately their destination. Already nearly a half year had passed, and Floyd felt he had enough stories in spades, but he knew his little village would not welcome him home unless he had two years’ worth of stories. Two years! He had already done so much in six months!
As their vessel made their way around the Arabian coast, Floyd marveled at the blowing sands that seemed to stretch into eternity. At a dock in Balhaf, with rocky cliffs rising all around, they met a strange man named Niddala whom Faux took a liking to. Floyd thought him nothing more than a common thief who claimed to procure relics of great interest for others. For a price of course. He asked her, in private, what her fascination with the man was, and she explained that he was a king in hiding. Not only could she read his mind, but she knew well the djinn he kept in a lantern in his tent. The djinn, Faddy, was known to her kind, and was known as one of the more powerful of djinns. He knew something of djinns, having heard of them in the tales of those who had returned from their own Journeys. In fact, Floyd had even heard of the tale of Aladdin and the Lamp, and, as he spoke, Faux waited for comprehension to dawn on him. It did, eventually. Niddala was, of course, Aladdin spelled backwards.
Faux explained that the handsome man with his secret djinn was about to have an adventure of his own, an adventure involving sprites and dragons and lion serpents, and one special woman named Jewel. Floyd nearly asked to travel with Aladdin, but Faux cut short his unasked question, reminding him that he had his own tale to tell. Not Aladdin’s.
And so it was with great reluctance that Floyd bid the swarthy man adieu, which was French for goodbye, a language that was common in some of the books Floyd had read.
And so it was many months later when they docked in Bohai Bay in the Oriental city of Tianjin. This was where they said their goodbyes to the captain and his crew, many of whom had become like brothers to Floyd. To say that he had transformed mightily in the eight-month voyage would be putting it lightly.
It was here, while Faux led him through the busy fish markets, that they would discover that Xanadu had been destroyed hundreds of years earlier, in the fourteenth century. But, according to their local informant, as translated by Faux, there remained some of the city’s walls; in particular the remnants of a holy temple that might be worth seeing. Floyd was about to say no, when a passerby heard their conversation and stopped. She went on to say that there lived a lone man in Xanadu. She had heard of travelers coming upon him. He lived in the ruins and refused any help.
“But why does he live alone?” Floyd asked.
Their new informant merely shrugged her narrow shoulders, and said she did not know, but there were rumors that he had been living there for centuries, and that he was waiting for someone.
When their informant had continued on, Floyd stole a glance at Faux, who sat atop Old Blackie, and who had transformed herself into a matronly Chinese woman. Admittedly, it was his least favorite of her disguises. She said, “This is your Journey, Floyd. What do you wish to do?”
Chapter 18: Dulcie
Floyd looked at her. He had become more canny about her little ways. “Xanadu is where you will make a man of me. Of course I have to go there.”
“Of course,” she agreed, and he knew he had made the correct decision. He also knew that he would become a man in her esteem not simply by sex with her, though that prospect hardly dissuaded him. He would have to earn her respect first, and that would be a challenge. He knew he had made progress during their long journey, but he still had a way to go.
“Technically, Xandu,” she added.
“Xandu?”
“That’s where the regular resort area was. I remember it well. But the magic aspect remains Xanadu. That’s where the sacred River Alph flows, the brief time it is in the mortal realm.”
“Brief time? I thought rivers were timeless.”
“You’ll see.”
He knew she would not tell him more. He would have to figure it out for himself. “Are there any other technicalities I should know about?”
“The Emperor’s name was actually Kublai, but we Fee called him Kubla.”
“And of course you had relations with
him.” That was a euphemism.
“Of course. But that was some time ago.”
Floyd decided not to question that aspect further. He knew Faux had been around, and she could fascinate any man she chose, even an emperor. That was then; this was now.
They bought a sturdy mule, together with supplies, and set out on the trek northwest, following a local map. They rode Old Blackie, while the mule carried the supplies. It was about 300 miles into the Mongolian highlands, passing a corner of the Gobi desert: two weeks of rough travel. They bought extra supplies along the way, such as bread and yak milk, and camped along the trail rather than at disreputable inns, and did well enough, considering. They washed up when they crossed the chilly streams, and it was a secret pleasure that was surely no secret from Faux when she assumed a vibrant young form for bathing. She didn’t mind that he looked. Otherwise she would have done it in the Chinese matron mode.
The trip was grueling, but they had an advantage: they were alone, and when Faux got bored she could do a little subtle magic to make it seem that they were traversing sweet Irish meadows at a comfortable temperature and humidity. The animals really appreciated that. She also had little powders she mixed with the drinking water that lent extra vigor, so that the trek was not as tiring.
But the thing that intrigued Floyd most was her appearance. For an hour she would be Amelie sitting before him on the horse, prim and proper, and he could talk to her as if she were real. He could privately admire her form, sometimes getting a peek down her blouse when she leaned back against him, and if on occasion he nuzzled her ear, she did not object. Then for an hour she would be Trudy, and while she was not as pretty, she was a better conversationalist. That made a difference when boredom threatened to overwhelm him. Then she would become Temperance—Truly in the story—with her special boots, and she turned around and faced him so that not only could he garner peeks, he could hug and kiss her as they rode. Temperance was the most expressive of the three, in the physical sense, and she was to an extent a tease, as the others were not. She knew he could not get very serious while riding the horse. Then she would spend an hour as herself, Faux Fee, her fair hair flowing and her phenomenal body straining at her clothing with each breath. “But there is one more,” she said.
The Journey Page 9
