Later I learned that this was one of the callicantzari, a race of monsters who lived mostly underground and undermined the roots of important trees, such as the Tree of Seeds on Mount Parnassus or the tree that supported the sky—the trees without which Xanth as we know it would cease to exist. Imagine a land without all the myriad and wonderful species of trees that stem from those magic seeds, or a land without any sky. How could we function without the sun and moon and stars and clouds safely out of the way? But it seemed that these monsters didn’t worry about that; they just wanted to bring down the trees. Maybe that’s one of the differences between monsters and human beings—the monsters don’t care what happens next.
The callicantzari have tunnels going to every significant mountain and labor diligently to bring down those trees, but when they get close to the surface and its unaccustomed freedom, they rush out and rim around, terrorizing people and animals and dancing wildly, maddened by the sight of the stars until morning comes. Even the goblins can’t stand them and will attack immediately if they show up in goblin territory. That explains why the callicantzari hadn’t used our tunnel to escape. When they get out elsewhere, and the sun rises, they flee its light in terror. The shock always takes them some time to recover from, and by the time they resume their normal equilibrium, such as it is, the trees have regrown their roots, and the job has to be started over. Thus the callicantzari are never successful, which perhaps is just as well. Generally, because of their repeated failures, they are in a foul mood, and their breath suggests that mood. So they really have quite a history, and are not just ordinary monsters. But at the moment, all I knew was that Pook and I were in more trouble.
We slowed, to avoid the monster—but then another appeared behind us, and we heard the tramping of others in neighboring caverns. If there is one thing worse than one monster, it is two monsters—and worse yet is a whole slew of them. We were surrounded!
“Got to bull through and hope we win clear,” I told Pook. “Before we both suffocate from the stench. You gallop, and I’ll fend them off.”
He galloped, and I aimed the lance at the monster before us. The calli was too stupid to move, so that my point caught him on the nose. The shock drove the lance through his head and knocked it out of my grasp. We charged on by the falling monster, who smelled even worse wounded than whole.
But another appeared before us. I whipped out my trusty sword, though I hated to soil my clean blade on ilk like this, and struck at his ugly neck. Like the other, he didn’t move, and my blade decapitated him. Ugh, it was gory! Barbarians are supposed to glory in blood, but this was ugly, smelly, gunky blood that contained very little glory.
Still there were more! Two lumbered from side tunnels, reaching for me with their grotesque carrion-hooks. I cut the arms off the one on the right, but the one on the left got me in a gruesome hug and hauled me off my steed. Yes, I know that sort of mishap is not supposed to happen to heroes. The truth is, it happens, but the Barbarian Publicity Department censors it out.
Pook faltered, turning his head back to look at me. More monsters were converging. “Run!” I cried at him as I poked the point of my sword over my shoulder to stab the face of the monster holding me. Hot ichor sprayed against my neck, and I knew I had scored. “Get out of here, Pook, before they catch you, too!”
The ghost horse took off, and I laid about me valiantly with the sword, hacking off arms and legs and ears as they came within reach. But as I had known, the monsters were too much for me. One scored on my head with a hammy fist, knocking me silly, and another took a huge bite at my face. I felt his tusks sinking into my cheeks; then I lost consciousness.
Naturally I wasn’t aware what happened next, but now I see it in the pictures of the tapestry, and my understanding of the situation helps fill it in. Satisfied that I was dead, the callis hauled me down to their main depot, where their cows and cubs lurked. There they clumsily used my own fair sword to cut my body open so they could gut me with their dirty claws. They yanked out all my innards and gobbled them down as delicacies, quarreling over the scraps. Then they jammed me in a big pot of cold water, to cook the tougher parts, and set about fetching wood for a fire. This took some time, for they had not planned ahead, and there wasn’t much wood to be found in the deep caves. But after some hours, they scraped up enough, garnered from the roots of the trees they had been trying to destroy. Now at last they were ready to cook.
Meanwhile, some of them checked through my tattered clothing to see if there was anything interesting there. They chomped on the buttons and laces and ripped the cloth, liking the ripping sound. They found the bag of berry-berries I had saved, then fought again among themselves to see who could gobble the greatest number down. Well, I daresay they felt the effect in due course; it was almost worth dying to think of the effect those debilitating berries would have on those monsters.
There was another problem: the callicantzari were afraid of fire. It seemed its brightness, reminiscent of that of the sun, hurt their eyes. If you ask me what sense it makes to crave cooked food when you’re afraid of fire, I can’t answer; I suppose monsters wouldn’t be monsters if they were sensible. If I had known about this before, I would have arranged to bring a torch with me into their caverns, so they would not have dared approach me. But barbarian heroes aren’t necessarily all-knowing, either.
Not one of the monsters wanted to light and tend the fire. This problem hung them up another hour. At last they drew lots for the one who would do the deed—but then he had no spell to start the fire. They had to look for another hour to locate the spell—by which time it was their night, which happened to correspond with ours, though I don’t know how they knew. Maybe the glowing fungi dimmed a little. So they left the feast until morning and snored. Their snores were absolutely awful sounds, like sawfish sawing down rock maple trees.
Meanwhile, Pook was galloping along the passages, searching for a way out. The monsters weren’t chasing him, because they already had me for their meal and weren’t very enterprising folk. Pook finally did blunder to an exit, went out, sniffed the air—and turned back. He had smelled something that made him pause, so he didn’t want to brave it alone.
The ghost horse, now sure of the way, came back to the central caverns and, near morning, sniffed out where I remained in the pot. He nuzzled the top of my head, waking me.
You see, I had had about ten hours to heal, and this was enough. I hadn’t really been killed; I had been knocked out, my face bitten off, and my guts eviscerated. By this time I had grown back my face and guts and healed the wounds. It took longer than it had to mend my crushed leg—the roc incident—because regrowing is more complicated than merely healing existing anatomy. I remained a little weak from loss of flesh, since my healing does not create matter from nothing; it draws on the remaining resources of my body. But I could function; I had been a strapping young man before this started and now was merely less strapping. Tissue from my big muscles had been co-opted to replace my guts. “Knock over the pot,” I told Pook.
He did so—this was the first solid evidence that he understood my words completely—and I floated out with the spilled water. The callis were such solid sleepers that neither the clang nor the water sloshing by aroused them. Indeed, the noise could hardly be distinguished over their horrendous snoring, and the water was no more voluminous than their droolings.
I climbed unsteadily to my feet and got on Pook’s back, pausing only to recover my good sword. My bow had been lost by the callicantzari; maybe they had used it as part of the wood for the upcoming cooking-fire. I wouldn’t put such an outrage past such creatures! I still wore my boots; they hadn’t thought to take them off me before putting me in the pot.
Then we were off, coursing upward through the passages, leaving the thick noise and stink behind. At last we emerged into the wonderful bright morning on the southeast slope of the mountain. Oh, what relief it was! If I had to die, I much preferred to perish in the open wilderness, rather than in the dank
, closed caverns.
Chapter 4. Elf Elm
We found a fresh stream and a copse of pie trees, and I drank and ate and foraged for suitable replacement clothing from shoe-trees—my boots were sloshingly soaked, so I needed temporary footwear while they dried—trouser-trees, and shirt-trees, to replace what I had lost, while Pook grazed. I didn’t try to hold or confine him; I lacked the strength, and anyway I didn’t feel I had a right, since he had come back for me on his own. Maybe he wasn’t tame, but he had chosen to be my companion for a while. I wondered why. I saw that he did not stray at all far from me, and I doubted this was from sudden affection. I hoped I wasn’t being overly cynical—but then I knew I had brought him a lot of trouble, and barbarians aren’t noted for comprehension of the nuances of interpersonal behavior.
It wasn’t long before I found out. Pook lifted his head, rattled his chains, and moved toward me.
“You want me to ride you?” I asked, bemused. “You’re not taking off alone into the wilds of the wilderness, knowing that I presently lack the strength or inclination to chase you down again?” Actually, I was stuffed with pies, which made me sluggish rather than weak, but this was also the first use of my new face and digestive tract. Startups are always awkward, and it takes a few hours to get the bugs out; there was a lot of gas, and I felt a little green. But every time I burped, another bug flew out, and I knew they would all be gone in a few more hours. There was no question that I was underweight, though; my thews were pitiful. In a few days I would be as good as new, more or less literally, but I needed lots of rest and food in the interim. I was no Magician; my magic talent had to be tempered with moderation.
I really appreciated Pook’s offer, whatever its motive. It was easier to ride than to walk, until my leg muscles filled out. So I harvested some cushions from the surrounding bushes, fashioned them into a saddle seat that would prevent the chains from pinching my rear, and mounted. We began making our way south at a cautious pace.
And the elves arrived.
Oho! That was why Pook needed me. Elves generally leave human folk alone and aren’t often seen, but they are funny in some ways. They can be deadly fighters, though they respect property rights. If they found Pook alone, they would run him down and tame him for their own use, making him a work horse. They could do that, because there were a number of them, they had little magic lariats, and they knew the terrain; they were experienced group hunters. But if they thought I owned him, they would let him be—at least until they had dealt with me. I was his buffer against the elves.
“Smart move, Pook!” I murmured with a certain rueful appreciation. There was an aspect of this that worried me. Elves usually, as I said, don’t mess with human folk, because there is a standing covenant between our two species. It’s a kind of mutual nonaggression pact. Since human and elven interests seldom intersect, it is easiest to respect one another’s interests. It certainly saves trouble. But both humans and elves had uses for a creature like Pook. If the elves really wanted the ghost horse, they might choose to quarrel. It wasn’t good to quarrel with elves in elven territory. They weren’t always as small as they looked.
At least now I knew that Pook had a fair brain in that equine head. He couldn’t talk—but of course, talking is not necessarily a sign of intelligence. He had made his problem mine. Unfortunately, I was in no fit condition to do battle at the moment.
This was a party of six elves. They were armed with assorted weapons and they wore green tunics. They were proportioned and dressed like human beings—oh, sure, human beings do wear tunics on occasion—but stood only a quarter my height. I met them with respect, for I knew that, at the best of times, they were far better as friends than as enemies, and this was an indifferent or middling-poor time. I cast about in my uncivilized mind for the proper form of address. Was it Sire? No, sir.
“What be your business in Elven demesnes, Man?” their leader demanded.
“Just passing through, sir,” I replied carefully.
“How did you get past the goblins?”
“They drove us into the mountain, sir, and the monsters there left me for dead, and my pooka rescued me.”
The elf eyed me suspiciously. “You tamed a ghost horse?”
“Well, partway, perhaps. It’s hard to tame such a creature completely.”
The elf considered, eyed Pook, and shrugged, satisfied. “You seek no quarrel with us, Man?”
“None, sir. I’m just a barbarian warrior in search of honest adventure.”
“Honest adventure, eh?” He considered me again, and I wasn’t clear what thoughts were percolating through his mind. “Would you agree that there are other kinds of adventure than battling callicantzari?”
That was when I learned the identity of the mountain monsters. “I certainly hope so, sir!”
“Then you will be our guest tonight.”
Amazed, I had to stifle a gape. I had hoped only to be allowed to pass without quarrel. “That’s very nice of you, sir.”
“What’s your name, Man?”
“Jordan, sir.”
“I am Oleander Elf, of the tribe of flower Elves. These are—” He indicated his companions in turn. “—Cactus, Dogwood, Knotweed, Bloodroot, and Arrowhead.” Indeed, I saw that they were armed in the manner of their names. Cactus had a dagger made of a large cactus thorn, Arrowhead had a little bow and quiver of arrows, Knotweed had knotted rope, Bloodroot had a red bag of fluid that might be blood-poison, and Dogwood had a wooden spear tipped with a large canine tooth. Only Oleander carried no visible weapon—but he was the leader, and I suspected he had something, perhaps a fighting spell. There were no goblins on this side of the mountain, and this was surely because of these elves. Elves did not seem as fierce and were certainly not as numerous as goblins, yet they kept the goblins clear. That spoke for itself. Like many people, I wondered what their secret was, since, as far as I knew, goblins respected nothing but brute force.
Oleander led Pook and me along a winding path to a hidden glen. I was glad to go with them, for this was a signal honor, and elves were creatures of integrity; as their guest, I would be absolutely safe. But I remained mystified as to why they should extend this honor to a wandering barbarian. It could not be purely for delight in my company; barbarians do not make very good company.
The journey took over an hour, for the little folk did not travel as fast as a man, though they stepped out sprightly enough. I did not mind, since I was riding and also recovering from my recent injuries. The nourishment from all those pies I had stuffed in my new face and gut was working its way though the rest of my body, and my thews were strengthening.
The elven camp was around and in an elf elm, of course; everyone knows elves will reside nowhere else. When danger threatened, the women and children retreated to the heights, while the warriors ringed the base of the tree. At the moment, most of them were down, for they were setting up for their midday meal. The smells were good, but I was still digesting pies and wasn’t really hungry. That was just as well, for their portions were small.
We sat on the ground, and the elven maidens served leaves filled with stew. The leaves were cleverly worked into bowls, so that the stew did not leak. I accepted mine, curious what was in the stew but hesitant to ask. There seemed to be chunks of vegetables, nuts, fruits, and meats in it, and I suspected that the meat was from mice and grasshoppers. It tasted good, anyway, and was just enough to top off what I had eaten before.
Then Oleander brought an elf maiden to meet me. “This is Bluebell, who wishes to ask a favor of you, Man,” he said somewhat brusquely and departed. I wondered at that anew; had I given some sort of offense? I had certainly tried to be a good guest, but one never can be certain with nonhuman cultures, though the elves were about as human as such cultures got. If it were not for the distinction of size, I would hardly know the difference.
“A favor?” I asked. “I will be happy to help in any way I can, but I don’t know much about elves—”
Bluebel
l smiled. She was a lovely little creature, perfectly proportioned, like a doll in her green dress. “I will tell you about elves, Jordan-Man,” she said. “But first I must do you a favor, so it’s even. What would you like?”
“I am quite satisfied to accept the elven hospitality,” I replied cautiously. I glanced across to where Pook was grazing. Few animals got to touch grass as lush as that which the elves cultivated around their elms. “And so is my horse. That is favor enough.”
“No, you will repay that by telling us your story tonight,” she said. “I mean, a favor from me personally.”
What was she getting at? “Your charming company is enough,” I said. “Please tell me what you wish me to—”
“Not yet,” she demurred. She jumped up to perch on my bent knee, dangling her pretty legs in the way girls had. “I must do you my favor first.”
I shook my head. “As I said, I’m just a backwoods man, unfamiliar with elven ways. I don’t want to give offense by making mistakes, and I have already antagonized Oleander in some way. So you will have to explain to me exactly what—”
She emulated my motion, but the effect differed: when she shook her head, her lovely elf-gray hair tumbled about fetchingly. “Don’t worry about him! He’s just perturbed because he wanted Cowslip to get your favor, but I won the toss. Cowslip’s his cousin, and she’s all right if you like that type.” Bluebell indicated an elf maid nearby. I looked and saw a stunning example of the type; I did indeed like it.
“I will do a favor for each of you, to keep the peace,” I said magnanimously. “But I need to know what—”
She laughed merrily. “Only for me, Man; that’s the rule. I’ve got the spell. I won it and I won’t share it.”
I was more perplexed than ever. “What spell?”
She glanced at me sidelong. “You are delightful! I will show you in due course. Now—name your favor.”
Crewel Lye Page 6
