The Deavys

by Alan Dean Foster

“Or beardy,” added a reflective, and slightly conflicted, Rose.

  A look of fond remembrance washed over the king’s countenance like watercolor on a white board. In addition, there appeared a dampness at the corner of one eye that was no lingering manifestation of his present condition but rather a sincere reflection of something long lost and almost forgotten.

  “So much time passed,” he murmured, more to himself than to his audience. “Innocence and beauty. Friendliness and warmth.” Hauling himself back to the present, he looked down at the coubet and smiled. “I get a lot of tongue, but nary a true kiss. Thank you for reminding me of what it is like, and of the deeper meanings that it holds.”

  Simwan could not keep from asking the question that had been bothering him ever since Rose had applied her initial, restoring kiss. “Why go back to what you were? Isn’t there some way for you to remain a king, or at least stay human?”

  The tall, dignified figure peered down at him. “Do you think enchantments are so easily broken? Nothing against the effectiveness of your siblings’ young lips, lad, but to permanently break such a powerful spell would require the attention of one who is older, more deeply attuned to the individual who is I, and of royal blood herself.” He sighed heavily. “Perhaps one day she will come. If not, well, I am still a king. Small, green, and uncloaked, perhaps, but a king nonetheless.” Turning to face the living barrier, he started to raise his hands.

  “Wait.” Simwan had one more question. “If in your enchantment you take the form of a frog, how is it that you can command turtles?”

  The king looked back him without lowering his arms. “We water-folk have all manner and variety of arrangements. That is what happens when you have much in common with another kind besides simply sharing the same living space.”

  Reaching into his regal coat, he withdrew something small and stringed. Simwan could not see it clearly, but he could hear the sharp, precise notes that reverberated through the afternoon air as the king ran a couple of fingers across the concealed instrument.

  That was all it took; a few plucks on a magic twanger, and the wall of turtles began to fall. Well, not fall, Simwan corrected himself. A portion of the barrier simply dispersed in two different directions, slowly and with considerable deliberation. The large turtles that formed the foundation lumbered ponderously to one side or the other while their smaller relations slid or tumbled clear.

  “There you go.” Slipping his mysterious, unseen little instrument back inside his coat, the king stepped off to one side and extended an inviting arm northward. “Hop to it.”

  As soon as all of them had passed through and were making their way to the other side of the extended pond, they turned to wave farewell to the king. Standing in the gap, flanked on either side by turtles stacked ten feet high like so many four-legged building blocks, the very solitude of his temporarily restored humanness adding to his nobility, King Thadd waved back. Behind him, soldiers and bakers, ballplayers and musicians, all the enchanted who had been provisionally brought back to their human selves by the coubet’s energetic kisses, were shrinking. Within a few moments, the watery surrounds were once again dominated by a counterpoint of chirruping and croaking.

  “That wasn’t easy.” Stepping out of the shallow water on the far side of the pond, Amber bent to roll down first one pants leg, then the other. “Kissing them all.”

  “Could’ve been worse,” N/Ice pointed out. “I don’t see any sign of warts.”

  “He was a nice king.” Rose, who after all had been compelled to deliver herself of not one but two kisses to the man in question, wore an expression Simwan had never seen on his sister before. “I wonder if he’ll still be here and still be enchanted when I grow up.”

  “Forget it, girl,” Amber chided her sternly. “It wouldn’t make any difference. For one thing, you’ve got no royal blood in you.”

  “Hey,” Rose shot back as she turned on her sister, “it’s not like I’d want to marry the guy, or anything.” Her vociferous demurral notwithstanding, vestiges of that unprecedented expression hinted at returning. “But I bet he’d be an interesting date.”

  “You know,” N/Ice put in, “we never even thought to ask him what he’d been king of. Before the Pond, I mean.” Alarmingly, she showed signs of embracing the same expression that had come over Rose. “I think you’re right, sis. In a few years, it might be really interesting to come back here and talk to him again. And maybe try a different kind of kiss.”

  “Well,” murmured Amber, “there’s only one way to decide for sure.”

  Her sisters eyed her uncertainly. “How’s that?” wondered Rose.

  Amber’s expression cracked, though to her credit she never quite lost control. “We’d have to take a Thadd poll.”

  Simwan shook his head despairingly as he watched Rose and N/Ice chase their sister across the slight grassy rise ahead of them. Thankfully, the rain had let up again, though it was still cloudy and damp. Behind him, the turtle barrier had vanished, lost in the mist and the rising up in its wake of the ordinary part of the park.

  “Sisters,” he muttered. “When they’re not fighting with me, they’re fighting with one another.” He looked down at the cat pacing him. At the moment, Pithfwid had chosen to appear golden brown with patches of white. “Do you think they can stop being little girls long enough to deal with something as grim as the Crub?”

  “Separately, your chattering siblings are children on the cusp of adulthood. Together, they are a coubet. Those are two very different things,” the cat reminded him. “Children would have no chance against such as the Crub. A coubet—now that’s something else entirely.” He glanced backward. “A good thing indeed that we are once again on our way. That confrontation was no less difficult for me than it was for your sisters.”

  Simwan looked uncertain. “Why was it difficult for you? You didn’t have to kiss any frogs.”

  “No, but I did have to struggle to mind my manners. I happen to be very fond of frog legs, and I suspect that had I made a meal of one of the king’s subjects, he would have been much less inclined to grant us safe passage.”

  Simwan nodded understandingly. He could not quite sympathize with the cat, however, because he had never eaten frog legs. That was one more unforeseen consequence of their recent encounter.

  Now, he never could.

  XVIII

  The appearance of more Ords than they had encountered since they had first entered the park was, in its perfectly ordinary, unspectacular way, comforting and reassuring. Though the mist and light rain continued, the vast flat expanse of the Great Lawn allowed the advancing Deavys to see a fair distance in any direction for the first time since they had left the vicinity of the zoo. Ignoring inviting side paths and suggestive signs, the Deavys struck out straight across the lawn. Heading north and very slightly west, they deviated from their chosen course only once, so that everyone could take a long draught from a public drinking fountain. Possibly the signs of normality all around caused them to relax more than they should have. Or maybe the fog that suddenly dropped over them like a blanket of wet soot was enough by itself to shut out the non-ordinary part of the park. Whether the fog was responsible, or whether they had entered into another, subtler variation of the landscape, it was impossible to tell. One consequence soon became obvious, however. Regardless of the cause, exercising Ords and their attendant pets, spooning couples, and puffing joggers were soon once more lost to sight, swallowed up by the returning mist.

  After a short but brisk walk they found themselves on the paved walkway that bordered the vast expanse of the Reservoir. Looking like a cloaked, seated statue, an old woman was feeding stale popcorn to sodden pigeons. Otherwise the area fronting the water, like most of the park on this cold, damp October day, was devoid of visitors.

  The decision to take a short break to rest and catch their breath was a unanimous one. There were benches of concrete
and wood and metal to sit on, and the fog had lifted sufficiently for them to see partway across the perfectly flat body of water that was by far the largest such expanse in the park. Shining through the misty overcast like a sheet of unrolled steel, it spread out before them. The Reservoir occupied about a sixth of the park’s total area while even the Ord version extended nearly from one side to the other, east to west.

  Choosing one bench, N/Ice glanced to her right to make sure none of the Ords were looking in their direction. She need not have concerned herself. The few joggers were steadily passing in and out of sight; the old lady was intent on her voracious avian friends. Cupping both hands together in front of her mouth, N/Ice inclined her head toward her palms and uttered a short, sharp, simple spell. A flush of radiance appeared in the bowl formed by her hands, the light shining pale red through the narrow gaps between her fingers. As she pulled her palms apart, she puckered her lips and blew gently. Impelled forward and down by her breath, the ball of pale yellow light she had called forth struck the concrete bench and sank into it like butter melting into a hot baked potato. The luminance dissipated rapidly, taking with it all the moisture that had accumulated on the bench’s back and seat.

  The girls promptly sat down on the freshly dried bench. Since the coubet backsides took up its entire length, Simwan was left standing. He didn’t mind. As a big brother of all sisters, being left out was just something he had gotten used to. Pithfwid had no such problem. With three warm, comfortable, girlish laps to choose from, he selected one and jumped possessively up into Amber’s.

  After calling up a few thousand ants to clean the dirt off their clothes, the girls—and Simwan—felt refreshed as they walked up to the edge of the concrete barrier that held back the deceptively tranquil body of fresh water known as the Reservoir. Simwan stood quietly studying the gray expanse. It was too deep to wade, as they had done at Turtle Pond, and it extended nearly from one side of the park to the other. Somehow, they had to get across.

  Movement drew his attention away from the beckoning water. The freshly cleansed coubet had come up alongside him. For all their noisy bravado, the girls were once again waiting for him to make a decision.

  “We have to get across,” he told them, reiterating what they already knew, “but the prospect scares me. Remember what the nice old guy with the snack cart told us.”

  Rose repeated it aloud. “‘Beware the Reservoir.’”

  Her brother nodded somberly. “If his warnings are as well made as his drinks, I don’t think we should take the chance.”

  Amber spoke while surveying the empty expanse. “Then what do we do?”

  Turning, N/Ice gestured at the walkway that traced the Reservoir’s southern boundary. “There’s more park to the west of the Reservoir than there is to the east. One thing I remember from the map is that the park’s main bridle path runs south to north on that side.” Her tone was hopeful. “We could follow it. It could be the Path of Singular Significance that the senior lady langur told us to take.”

  Simwan was unsure. “I dunno. She also told us that to get to the Crub’s lair we should follow on straight through the park. That’s pretty much what we’ve been doing.” He gestured westward, into the fog and drizzle. “If we turn off to the left now, we won’t be going straight anymore.”

  Rose was deep in thought as she kicked idly at the pavement with one foot. Finally, she looked up and declared, “Well, straight on or not, I’m still pretty dry in spite of the rain, and I’m sure not going for a swim.”

  “Me neither.” N/Ice sounded just as defiant as her sister.

  Despite the misgivings he felt over the looming and seemingly unavoidable change of direction, Simwan was not ashamed to be outvoted. Their parents had raised them to live side by side not just as brother and sisters, but also as a small democracy. In the event of a tie, Pithfwid was available to break any deadlock. Simwan eyed his remaining sibling.

  “Amber?”

  “I think we should take to heart what the man with the snack cart told us: to beware the Reservoir.” Even in the mist-diffused light of late afternoon, her unblinking eyes shone like discs of polished slate speckled with gold dust.

  Simwan chose not to argue. For one thing, he couldn’t think of a better course of action. Nor did he particularly fancy stripping off his clothes and going for what promised to be a cold, cold swim, either.

  But as they started westward along the gently curving pavement, he could not get the monkey’s admonition out of his mind. For the first time since they had left the zoo, they were no longer proceeding northward, were no longer heading straight toward their goal.

  He just had to hope that in spite of that, they would still get where they were going.

  XIX

  It was early evening when they reached the place where the paved walkway that bordered the south reaches of the Reservoir intersected the main bridle path. All manner and kinds of trees lined the heavily forested route, which was much wider than any of the merely pedestrian walkways they had encountered since entering the park. Though covered only with gravel and hard-packed earth, it was expansive enough to accommodate a truck. Except for park maintenance vehicles, however, no machines were allowed on the path. Only horses, riders, and pedestrians.

  Simwan’s map showed the path winding its way along most of the length of the park all the way from south to north. Snaking its way between the west side of the Reservoir and Central Park West, it seemed to offer easy access to the park’s northernmost reaches. As they stood studying the route, a couple of Ord joggers came boinking past, their faces frozen in the familiar grimace common to all such creatures whose chosen activity is mistakenly marketed as fun. Watching them labor past, heading south, Amber shuddered at the prospect.

  “Ever see one of those things smiling?” she commented.

  Rose shook her head sadly. “Not once. Not ever.” Glancing skyward, she stepped out onto the path. The cloud cover that had been present all day made it hard to judge the time by the movement of the heavily obscured sun. So she dispensed with tradition, and checked her watch. “We’d best hurry.”

  “Okay,” agreed N/Ice, “but no matter how late it is, I’m not jogging.”

  Omnipresent fallen leaves crunched like stale potato chips beneath their feet as they set out on the path. Gold, brown, and every shade in between, they formed a colorful carpet beneath the children as they made their way northward. They encountered no more joggers. Simwan was not surprised at the absence of riders. Even to a non-equestrian like himself, horseback riding in the rain didn’t seem like it would be much fun.

  They had progressed maybe halfway around the Reservoir when Pithfwid came to a stop. Surrounded by fallen and falling leaves, the cat had halted in the middle of the path. Now he was lying prone, stretched out full-length on his right side on the hard, wet ground. Hands on hips, a disapproving Amber frowned down at him.

  “I know cats need a lot of sleep, Pithfwid, but this really isn’t the time or the place for a catnap.”

  “Shut up,” he hissed curtly.

  The sharpness of his retort stunned everyone. Pithfwid could be brusque, he could be aloof, but he was rarely impolite. It suggested that he was really irritated—or that something ominous was afoot.

  That was when Simwan noticed that in addition to being sprawled full-length on the ground, Pithfwid’s head was firmly pressed to the earth. He was listening to something not only with his right ear, but with his entire body. Trying to divide his attention between cat and path, Simwan knelt beside him and whispered.

  “What do you hear, Pithfwid? What do you feel?”

  A pause, then: “Vibrations. Coming toward us. Growing stronger.”

  The girls had gathered around to gaze down at the cat. “Horses and riders?” Amber finally asked.

  “Yes—but not what you think.” Springing sharply to his feet, Pithfwid whirled and sprang forwar
d—back the way they had come. It was the first time since they had entered the park that the cat had retreated so much as a step. “Run!”

  Reflexively, everyone looked north, up the bridle path, even as they complied. From infancy, they had each and every one of them learned to pay attention whenever the cat said “jump.” He never did so unless there was a good reason for it, such as the time baby Rose had been caught prodding a wasps’ nest to try and coax out the pretty-colored creatures dwelling within, or when a curious four-year-old Simwan had tried to stick his fingers into one of the wall sockets in the Deavy house. There were no wasps’ nests visible on the bridle path, or open sockets, but Simwan knew that something serious had alarmed the cat, and that was enough to persuade him to break into a worried sprint.

  N/Ice had declared that she wouldn’t jog—but she had voiced no such compunction about taking flight. They raced back the way they had come, following Pithfwid, occasionally looking back over their shoulders. Nothing was to be seen behind them for several minutes.

  That did not mean there was nothing to be heard.

  The grunts that came out of the increasingly dark mist were low and terse, loud and deep. They suggested the approach of something large and powerful, and more than one of whatever it was. Above the rhythmic grunting could be heard high-pitched speech of a kind that was alien to Simwan. It sounded at once familiar and yet completely foreign: the sounds guttural and the words unintelligible, as if someone was reciting a half-known language backward and upside down. Both grunting and growling were closing quickly. He tried to run faster. The girls kept up with him (who knew that all that soccer practice would have a practical payoff?), while Pithfwid had to slow his pace to keep from leaving them behind.

  The bridle path was reserved for the use of pedestrians, joggers, and horses and riders. Listening to the earth, Pithfwid had acknowledged the approach of the latter—“but not what you think.”Straining to see back through the gloom and the mist, Simwan’s eyes widened as the reason for the cat’s cryptic comment finally thundered into view.