Crewel Lye

by Piers Anthony

  I froze. Berry-berries! They were poisonous, causing weakness, paralysis, and wasting away. But the effects were slow, so that a person could eat a lot of them before being affected—and that would be too late. Of course my magic talent would protect me from serious damage, but while it was acting, the pooka could have gotten away. Better not to get into trouble to begin with!

  However, I had a cunning primitive thought. I might be able to use those berry-berries for my own advantage sometime. So I harvested a number and put them in my bag. I noticed there were no B’s buzzing around the plants that still had flowers; perhaps that had helped alert me. B’s stayed strictly away from berry-berries, so that the berries could even be used as a B repellent.

  Then I plowed on after the pooka, who obviously had had the sense not to nibble on these berries. Had he led me through here deliberately? I wasn’t sure. Animals aren’t supposed to be too smart—but then neither are barbarian swordsmen. Prejudices can be deceiving.

  I came to hoofprints leading clearly to a line—and beyond that line was nothing. Not a cliff, not a wall, just—nothing.

  Now, I always did get a little nervous about things I didn’t understand, such as marriage and family, and I certainly didn’t understand this. Was it magic? I had heard of magic mirrors that a person could step into and be in the reverse land beyond, and I knew better than to look into the peephole of a hypnogourd. But it looked as if the pooka had crossed this line and disappeared, so it seemed I would have to follow if I wanted to catch him. Then again, those berry-berries—exactly how cunning was this creature?

  I decided to double-check. A little caution seldom hurts anyone. Another myth about barbarians is that they charge straight ahead heedlessly into danger; in truth it is the ignorant civilized man, blundering in the jungle, who does that. No barbarian ever walked blithely into a tangle tree! Well, yes, I did do that at night, but that was a special situation, and I had my sword ready.

  I retraced the suspiciously clear hoofprints—and discovered another set diverging behind some bushes. This occurred on turf, where the traces wouldn’t have been visible to the average person, but of course I had a keen wilderness eye. The pooka had walked up to the line, stopped, then carefully backtracked, setting each hoof in its own print, so as to make it seem he had crossed.

  That was warning enough for me. I would not cross that line! Later I learned how smart my decision was; the line was the boundary of the Void, from which no creature returned. The pooka had led me to a pretty trap indeed!

  This, however, showed how clever an animal he was. Now, more than ever, I wanted him for my steed. I followed the new trail and soon spooked the ghost horse back into motion. He had been standing in another thicket, watching me approach. The devil!

  Now I was twice as determined to capture him. I pursued him with such determination that I hardly felt my fatigue. When he paused, so that I could neither hear nor see him, in some location where the trail was confused, I paused too, napping; when he moved again, I moved. I could tell he was getting nervous—and ravenous.

  He was now fleeing southeast. This took me through a pleasant region filled with birds of every size and description. Some of them were pretty big; in fact, I saw a roc-bird circling overhead, but I wasn’t too nervous because I knew I was too small to interest it. The pooka was another matter, though; I saw the roc swoop down and realized with horror that it was going for the ghost horse.

  Quickly I unslung my bow and charged forward. I crested a ridge just in time to see the big bird lifting the pooka in its claws. But the chains added to the weight of the horse, off-balancing the bird, and it hesitated. Quickly I loosed a shaft. It sped directly to the bird’s feathered rump. Of course, my arrow was no more than a little thorn to a creature that size. But the thorn must have lodged in a tender spot, because the bird let out an indignant, O-shaped squawk and dropped the pooka.

  The pooka galloped away with a loud rattle and scooted past a tangle tree where the roc couldn’t follow. The big bird screamed in fury—and oriented on me. Have you ever seen an angry roc? You never want to! The thing launched itself toward me, and its wings spread so wide they blotted out the light of the sun. I raised my sword, but I knew it was hopeless; this creature was simply too big for me to fight.

  The talons came down, grasping for me—but they were so huge and spread so wide that they missed me; I passed right through their mesh. Perceiving this, the roc grabbed again, this time plunging its claws into the ground around me. They hooked into dirt, rock, turf, and a medium-sized tree and swept all up together, with me in the center.

  I laid desperately about me with my sword as the bird took off. I struck at the nearest talon, which was as thick as my thigh, and severed it with a single mighty-thewed blow. Blood spurted out of the artery in its center, and the ground that talon had supported crumbled. Blood soaked the divot, further weakening the structure. The scooped-up tree fell through, and I tumbled through with it. We plunged in a messy mass to the ground from the height of a standing tree.

  It was a bad fall, made worse by the gory dirt. I was knocked half silly, and my condition was not improved when several fair-sized rocks landed on me, crushing my legs. I don’t know how other heroes manage to escape injury when caught in horrendous situations; certainly I had no such charm. I did the sensible thing—I lost consciousness.

  I recovered an hour later, my crushed leg healed. Oh, didn’t I mention this? My magic talent is healing myself. If I am cut, it will seal up immediately if small, and in minutes if large. If I lose a finger, it regrows. If I lose a foot, it takes about an hour to regenerate. If I am killed by an arrow through the heart, I will recover in a day. Longer, if no one pulls out the arrow. So my crushed leg was a job for an hour, and I was as fit as ever. Maybe fitter, because the restored leg wasn’t tired, the way the other one was.

  Evidently the big bird had left me for dead. That was a natural mistake. Similar confusions had happened before. I was, in fact, practically indestructible in any permanent sense. That was one reason I liked adventure. I had good magic for a hero.

  So now I resumed the pursuit. The ghost horse hadn’t gone far. Thinking me out of it, he was grazing nearby. Yes, he was hungry!

  I yelled and bore down on him. He looked up, startled—and reacted as if he’d seen someone risen from the dead. Terrified, he took off, leaving half a munch of grass to drop to the ground behind. One might think a ghost horse would not be afraid of other ghosts, but that’s not so; even ghosts fear what they don’t understand, and the average ghost is a pretty timid creature. I ought to know! And, of course, a pooka isn’t a complete ghost, because of that solidity; it’s sort of in a halfway state, much the way a zombie is halfway between life and death. If the pooka ever slipped his chains, he’d fade into full spirit status. But the chains hold him to life, so he must graze and do most of the other things living creatures do, however inconvenient some of them may be. There are a number of things like that in Xanth, neither this nor that, but partaking of some of this and other of that.

  The chase was on again. The pooka fled southeast—and led me into griffin country. I could tell by the old spoor, the claw marks on the trunks of trees, and the griffin manure. I kept alert, for griffins can be aggressive creatures. I figured I could handle one griffin, but sometimes they traveled in prides, and that could be trouble. The roc had left me because I was too small a morsel to bother with, and it would have gotten dirt on its beak just scooping up my body. But griffins would eat me, and I wasn’t sure how easy it would be for me to recover if that happened. Maybe if one of them ate most of me, I’d be able to collect myself together again—but I didn’t care to risk it. For one thing, injuries hurt me just the same as they do other folk, until they heal; why endure all that pain if I didn’t have to? So I was careful. Maybe barbarians were supposed to laugh at scars as if they never felt a wound, but the humor of that escaped me.

  The pooka, hungry and tired, was less careful. He charged right through a
griffin-retreat, where there was a big nest in a low-branching tree. A griffiness was on the nest, incubating an egg or something—I’m not quite clear on that aspect, as griffins are fussy creatures with royal lineages and don’t tolerate much snooping—and she let out an awful squawk at this intrusion. The male griffin had been snoozing on a branch up higher in the tree, his wings folded while his claws gripped the bark. Startled, he jumped right off the branch and plunged like a rock, or maybe I mean a roc, before he spread his wings and pulled out of the dive. He wasn’t one bit pleased. I suspect I wouldn’t be, either, waking up like that, with a woman screaming at me about some creature violating her privacy. Maybe that’s another reason I was wary of marriage; like the boundary to the Void, it’s apt to be a one-way trip into who-knows-what.

  It took only a moment for the male griffin to catch on that the pooka had started this. He wheeled in the air and swooped after the ghost horse, who had recovered sense enough to gallop out of there at top speed. I followed as fast as I could.

  The pooka was fast, despite the chains, when he ran full-out; but so was the griffin in flight, and he wasn’t carrying any extra weight. I think, if the pooka had been fresh or had better running turf, he could have escaped. But the ground was getting marshy here, and there were many trees, so the terrain hampered the ghost horse somewhat. The griffin was able to swoop efficiently around the trees, so he gained.

  The griffin pulled up above the pooka and pounced—and I was too far away to do anything. I could only run after them, and watch. Even if I had been within arrow range, I’m not sure I would have used my bow, because, if I killed the griffin, it would have left the griffiness alone on her nest, unable to forage without leaving her egg or whatever, and I really didn’t like to do that. Meeting a griffin in battle is one thing; messing up nesting arrangements is another. Yes, I know this sounds foolish, but you can’t live in the wilderness long without developing a solid respect for the creatures there. These griffins had not been looking for trouble; the pooka had started it because I was chasing him, which really made the whole thing my fault. I can kill creatures when I’m right, but not when I’m wrong. So I was really pretty well helpless, regardless.

  The griffin landed on the pooka’s back, and his beak pecked down—and struck one of the chains. Ouch! The griffin, dazed by the pain, tried to fly up and couldn’t, because one of his claws was caught in another chain.

  The pooka bucked, trying to throw off the griffin; the griffin wanted to go, but could not. Then the pooka charged under an overhanging branch, and that scraped the griffin off, the hard way. He fluttered, turning over in the air, and bounced on his back on the ground. Little stars and planets of discomfort radiated out from him as he bounced. He scrambled upright and took to the air again, unsteadily, trailing lingering squiggles of confusion and dismay. He had forgotten about the pooka, who did not linger to remind him. The griffin lurched back toward the nest-tree, radiating evanescent wattles of sweat. One hardly ever sees a griffin sweat! I ran on after the ghost horse.

  The marsh grew marshier, as such things tend to do, and my boots squished in it. I didn’t like this, but had to keep after the pooka. The ghost horse didn’t like it, either. He veered south, heading for higher ground, but it became apparent that the mountains visible to the south were too far away to do much good for some time. So he turned west, and I followed, and we slogged up toward a bright wall. Evidently this region was outside the pooka’s normal range; he wasn’t quite certain where he was going.

  The closer we got to the wall to the west, the brighter it became—and the worse the land got. Now it was a virtual bog—and triangular colored fins appeared in it, traveling at high speed. A green one came near me and rose up out of the muck; I saw that it was a big fish with a mouthful of teeth. The fish leaped at me, teethfirst, so I whipped out my trusty sword and stabbed the creature in the snout.

  “Ooo, ouch!” the fish cried, plopping back into the muck. “You didn’t have to do that! All I wanted was to loan you something.”

  I didn’t trust talking fish. “What did you expect in return?”

  “Only an arm and a leg,” it replied.

  “Well, I’m not interested. leave me alone, or—”

  “That’s what I’m trying to do! Leave you a loan. I’m a loan shark.”

  “I don’t care if you’re a lone shark or a hundred sharks, I don’t want to see your green back near me! Take off, or I’ll lop off your fin.”

  The thought of losing its finback discouraged the fish, and it swam rapidly away.

  But the pooka was having more trouble. Three of the fins, red, blue, and yellow, were circling him hungrily, and he was mudded down in the bog. He slogged through the slough toward the west wall. But now I could see that it was a wall of fire. That was no good!

  I forged toward him, waving my sword to scare away the fish. “Move off,” I cried at them, “Or I’ll saw your bucks in half.” The fish hesitated, not wanting to experience this sawbuck. But the pooka saw my waving weapon and was scared away himself. He plunged for the firewall.

  “No, wait!” I cried. “I’m trying to help you!”

  But he continued, more afraid of me than of either the fins or the firewall, and soon he reached the latter. Now the heat stopped him. He couldn’t pass that fire, but the fish hemmed him in behind. The red and blue fins were spiraling closer; the yellow, more fearful, circled farther out.

  The pooka wrenched a forefoot out of the bog and struck at the red fin, but the effort mired the other three legs deeper. He was in real trouble! I shoved toward him, and now he couldn’t flee me. But I wasn’t sure how I could save him, let alone capture him.

  The blue shark forged in at the pooka’s side and tried to take a bite; its teeth crunched on chains. I saw little sparks fly up as enamel met metal; that must have hurt! The fish retreated, but did not depart.

  Now at last I got there. The pooka was afraid of me, but so badly mired he couldn’t move. “Look, Pook,” I said. “All I want is to ride you. When I get where I’m going, I’ll let you go. It’s not a fate worse than death! And death is what you’ll get here. If you don’t drown, the sharks will skin you alive. Wouldn’t you rather travel with me?”

  The pooka just looked at me as if I were halfway tetched. I’m not sure he understood me. Animals vary in Xanth; some are smarter than people, but most are not. Maybe my voice reassured him, that and the fact that I wasn’t trying to kill him. Maybe he was just so mired he couldn’t budge.

  The red fin launched itself at me. I chopped at it with my blade, severing the fin from the body exactly as I had warned the greenback I would, and this redneck swam raggedly away. Now the water was red, too!

  But the blood attracted more fins. From all over the bog they converged, the colored light reflecting in what someone in a less precarious situation might have considered pretty. “Pook, we’re in trouble!” I said. I slogged right up against him. He tried to flinch away from me, but could not. I climbed on his back, and my weight shoved him deeper into the muck. Then the first fin arrived; I lashed at it with my sword and cut it off the fish. Immediately six other sharks pounced on the wounded one and tore it to pieces. An arm and a leg? These monsters were out for anything they could get!

  Another came at us, and I served it likewise—and so did its companions. And a third. Supported as I was, I could reach a full circle with my sword. Not one fin got close enough to bite before being severed. Soon the muck around us was a morass of gore.

  After a time, so many sharks had been eaten that the remaining ones were gorged. The circle of fins widened and fell apart; they were no longer interested in us. As I have said, brute force and swordplay may not be the answer to every problem, but there are times when they are good enough.

  The pooka was now up to his shoulders in muck. Before long the stuff would reach his head, and he would drown in dirty blood. I had to do something!

  “Look, Pook,” I told him. “I’m on your side. I want to help you. I sav
ed you from the fins. I helped you escape the roe and the griffin before. Now I’ve got to get you out of here—but I don’t know how. So I’ll try to find a way. You just hang on here. I’ll be back as soon as I can; keep your chin up.” I dismounted and stood in the muck beside him.

  Well, could I pull his feet out, one by one? I reached down along one hind leg, gripped it as deep as I could, and hauled. It did not come up; I sank down. That was no good.

  I looked at the firewall. It was not as hot as I had first thought, and I could see vague shapes through it. Was it thin? I decided to find out.

  I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, ducked under the bloodwater, and pushed toward the firewall. When I hoped I had gone far enough, I came up—and found myself in a burned-out forest. The firewall was behind me, and evidently the fire had recently left this spot. But, strangely, green shoots were already appearing on the charred trees. They were burned but not dead.

  To the west, the muck soon dehydrated into a baked flat, dried out by the fire. The pooka would be able to walk here—if he could get across the firewall. Well, I had done it; he could use the same device, ducking under the water. If he could unmuck enough to move.

  He would need help. I contemplated the smoldering, sprouting trunks and had a notion. I could haul him under!

  I ducked under the firewall again and came up in the bloodbath. There was the pooka, unchanged, except a little deeper mired. He was keeping his chin up; he had to, to keep his nose clear of the bloodstream that surrounded him.

  “I need a chain,” I said. I put my hands on one of the chains that wrapped him and tugged at it. The thing was tied in, with no free end. I wondered who had fastened these chains on him and why, but this was not the time for idle speculation. Many things in Xanth don’t have sensible explanations anyway; they just are.

  “I’ll have to do this the hard way,” I said. “Steady, now.” I stretched out a loop of chain so that it projected into the water beside him, then hefted my sword, lifting it above my head with both hands and bringing it down ferociously.