Crewel Lye

by Piers Anthony

  The slope got steeper as we went, until Pook was puffing, and I had to dismount to ease his burden. At one point I had to unloop one of his chains and throw it around a tree trunk above us, so I could pull on it and help heave him up. Actually, those chains were one reason he was struggling; they added a fair amount of weight to his climb. But we persevered and got so high by dusk that the Land of Xanth spread out below us, its lakes and jungles a lovely patchwork. One lake turned brighter and larger as I looked at it, trying to impress me; the inanimate can be just as vain about its appearance as any animate creature.

  Unfortunately, I could not see what was ahead of us, to the northwest, because the remainder of the mountain blocked that off. But I knew we’d see it once we crested. That should be as good as a map; maybe I’d even see the object, whatever it was. But would I recognize it?

  The mountain went up and up. It certainly hadn’t looked this big from below! The thing seemed to be drawing itself up, trying to outlast us, making this its own special contest.

  Well, next time I’d go around and risk the bad spells! But having started this course, I wasn’t about to quit now. As I may have remarked, barbarians can be oinkheaded on occasion, and I was typical of the breed.

  The air grew cool, then cold; we were entering the snow region. Sure enough, a flock of snow-birds wheeled in the sky, coming to investigate us. I didn’t know much about snow-birds, but didn’t trust them, and neither did Pook. We moved faster, seeking to avoid them, but they came over and buzzed us. White powder drifted down from their wings. Then they were off and out of sight.

  “No trouble after all,” I said, relieved. “Let’s find a spot to camp for the night. I’ll have to make a fire so we won’t freeze.”

  But Pook laid back his ears and plowed on up the cold slope. “Hey, what’s the matter?” I demanded. “We’ve got to stop before the ground gets frozen and there’s no brush for a fire. See if you can sniff out a level section, or maybe even a small cave.”

  Still he traveled, not slowing or searching at all. I began to get annoyed. “Now look, Pook, I’m tired and I want to rest, and you’re not that fresh either—”

  Then I noticed that snow was falling. But there was no cloud; the snowflakes were forming in the air. As I watched, they expanded, becoming wonderfully large and intricate disks, each one different from all its companions. I caught one by its rim, and it was the span of my spread hand, with six spokes radiating out from a hexagonal center, each branching and rebranching into finer networks, until the rim was another finely wrought hexagon. I marveled at the beauty and symmetry of it, when it melted in my hand and fell apart. I was unhappy at the loss of such a wonderful artifact; to stifle the unbarbarian tear coming to my eye, I grabbed another snowflake and concentrated on it. This one was like the finest doily ever crafted, in all ways absolutely delightful. But in a moment it, too, dissolved and was lost.

  Now the snowflakes became more ornate. They were no longer disks; they were prisms, reflecting and diffracting the slanting sunbeams so that rainbow hues radiated out in spokes of their own, forming larger hexagons of colored light that filled the air before me. The light-flakes became so solid I thought I could climb upward by grasping their interlocking spokes, but my hands merely changed colors when I reached, finding nothing.

  Ahead was a crevice in the mountain, too wide to leap across, its depths too deep and awful to contemplate. But the snowflakes multiplied and interlocked to form a bridge across it, and I guided Pook there.

  He came to the brink and balked. I kicked his sides, urging him forward. “It’s a perfect bridge,” I told him.

  “It’s a hallucination, you fool!” he told me.

  “How can you be sure of that?” I argued.

  “This is all a form of illusion,” he insisted.

  “Give me some proof, mule-head!”

  “It has to be illusion, because in real life I can’t talk human speech,” he said.

  I pondered that, considered it, and cogitated a bit on it. “Could be,” I opined at last. “But what’s the cause?”

  “That snow the snow-birds dropped on us, of course. That’s why I tried to get out of it. The stuff spaces out your mind and makes you see and hear things that just aren’t there.”

  “You mean there aren’t any big snowflakes, and you’re not talking to me now?”

  “That is precisely what I mean, lunkhead. The only big flake around here is you. Now sit tight while I get us out of it.” He picked his way on up the mountain. “Real snow cancels out the mind-bending snow. The cold freezes it, I think. No matter what you see, don’t get off my back.”

  “Why doesn’t it zonk out your mind, too?”

  “Don’t be silly, barbarian. I’m just an animal.”

  I decided he knew better than I did. “Actually, it’s sort of fun,” I said.

  Pook just snorted and plowed on.

  Now the flakes converted to snow-fairies, dancing on the breeze. They leaped, they twirled, they pirouetted most prettily. One of them beckoned to me and she reminded me of Bluebell and the dancing elven maidens; I started to dismount, but Pook gave a shake that jolted my memory, aggravatingly, and I desisted.

  Slowly the colorful images faded, and the mountain slope was revealed in its grim reality, all rock and scrub and patches of genuine snow. I looked below, at the crevice, and saw there was no bridge across it. I would have plunged into it, to my doom or great discomfort, had not Pook cautioned me about the illusion spawned by the snow-dust. The next snow-bird I saw would get an arrow through its body!

  Suddenly I recalled the elf crone’s prophecy: that I would be doomed by a cruel lie. That snowflake bridge had been a lie, all right! Thanks to Pook’s horse sense, I had avoided that doom.

  I glanced at Pook. “Thanks, ghost horse,” I said “You saved me from my own folly back there. You were more sensible than I.”

  Pook twitched an ear affirmatively and kept climbing.

  “But since you can’t talk—how did you warn me? I mean, if I just imagined you spoke to me in human words—”

  The horse continued moving.

  I sighed. “Well, I don’t quite know how much of what is real, but I’m sure you saved me, Pook. So I guess I can call you tame now.”

  Pook snorted, insulted.

  “Sorry,” I apologized. “But if you’re not tame, then why do you stay with me?”

  The horse merely shrugged, rattling a chain.

  Then I had about as bright a notion as a barbarian was capable of at that hour of the day. “Pook, if I may not call you tame—may I call you friend?”

  He nickered affirmatively. I had finally caught on!

  When Pook was satisfied that we were secure from hallucination, he stopped. We found an indentation, not really a cave, but enough to shelter us from the cutting wind, and I gathered straggles of half-buried brush and made a little fire. Pook was able to find dry grass and lichen under the snow for his supper, while I consumed my rations. It didn’t seem like much of a meal for him, but I suppose he was used to that sort of thing.

  The fire sank to embers and we settled for the night. Pook lay down, and I curled up next to him, glad for the heat of his body. I didn’t worry about watching for enemies; what man or monster would climb way up here, past the snow-birds and snow-dreams, just to bother a lone man and a horse? Anyway, I slept lightly, and so did Pook. We would be all right.

  I believe I have remarked before on the weakness of barbarian reasoning. This was demonstrated again this night. A sound would have roused us both, but there was no sound—not until it was almost too late.

  Pook became aware of it first; his nose was more alert than mine. He didn’t move; he puffed a nostrilful of warm air in my ear. I woke, wondering what he was up to—and felt the chill slithering across my ankle.

  I knew instantly what it was: a snowsnake. How utterly stupid of me to forget about them! They were snow-white and snow-cold and lived in snow; it was difficult to see or hear them in their h
abitat. But they were poisonous and they liked fresh meat.

  We were in trouble. I lay there, feigning sleep the way Pook was, assessing the situation. One bite would prove fatal for me, and probably three bites for Pook. I would recover in due course, assuming the feeding snakes left enough of me to be reconstituted, but Pook wouldn’t. So I had to prevent him from getting bitten.

  First I needed to know how many snakes there were and exactly where they were. Then I needed to eliminate them. First I had to deal with the ones who were most ready to strike, then the others.

  I cracked open an eye. That didn’t help; it was too dark to see. So I listened and felt. That didn’t help either; they were silent, and once the one passed my leg, I had no way to track it. But I knew the snakes wouldn’t wait long before striking; they would be eager to feed. They would pick their targets, and—

  Very well; we would have to shoot for double or nothing. “Roll!” I cried suddenly.

  Pook was ready. He rolled while I leaped up, grabbing for my sword. I heard a hiss; Pook had squished a snake under his crunching chains.

  I jumped for the leftover fire, sweeping my sword point through it. Embers and coals flew about, brightening angrily as they felt the cold air. One struck a snake; I heard the hiss of anguish and I chopped at the sound. There was a violent thrashing in the dark; I had scored.

  Now the snakes were all carelessly active, frightened by the glowing coals among them. Probably they would have moved on us earlier if that fire hadn’t been there; they had waited till it was low and then been cautious. Not cautious enough! I struck at every hiss I heard, and my reflexes were barbarian-swift, and my blade sliced through reptilian flesh. In a moment or so, I had cut up everything that made a sound.

  I returned to the fire and tossed on fresh brush. In a moment it blazed up, and I saw what I had wrought. There were four dead snakes—one squished, three cut to pieces. Each was about man-length, too small to be much opposition by day, but big enough to do a lot of damage by night, especially considering the poison. If any of them survived, they had fled.

  Pook returned. He had rolled downward and bounced to his feet. He did not seem to have been bitten; his chains had protected him, and, once he rolled free, all the snakes had been in my area.

  We had won through unscathed, but neither of us was inclined to lie down again. Even the slightest scathe by one of those snakes would have been a whole lot of trouble: I stoked the fire, and Pook stood near it, almost astride it, and I mounted him. Thus only his four feet were vulnerable, and they were close to the fire. But I held a cherry in my hand, just in case; if anything approached, it would get bombed. We spent the rest of the night like that, sleeping on guard. And the snowsnakes did not return.

  In the cold morning we ate again and resumed our journey. The pieces of snowsnake near the fire had melted, of course; there was nothing left of them. It really hadn’t been much of an adventure, just an inconvenience; I would rather have had undisturbed sleep. Maybe I just didn’t have the right attitude.

  Another cutting wind came up; that kind of wind seemed to like the upper reaches. I wrapped my cloak tightly about me for warmth and kept my gloved hands in toward my belly. Mainly, I depended on Pook for heat; I couldn’t have made this trek without him.

  By noon we reached the crest. Not the peak; there was no point in going right over that, as we weren’t interested in height, just in getting past. We headed for the lowest notch in the ridge that ran from peak to peak in this range. Wind cut through it with extra effort, stirring up powdered snow; I was reminded of the snow-birds’ snow and shuddered, but I knew it wasn’t that. I would be glad when we got down to good old-fashioned garden-variety tangle trees and hypnogourds again!

  But as we passed through the pass, I saw something lying in the snow, black against white. I got down and picked it up. It was a black compass, just like the white one I had in my bag of spells. It flashed.

  Suddenly I felt dizzy. “Where am I going?” I asked plaintively. “What am I looking for?”

  But in a moment I remembered. “I’m looking for an object to settle a claim for the new King of Xanth. But I have absolutely no idea where it is. The loser-spell has nullified my sense of location.”

  And then I said: “Now’s the time to invoke the finderspell so I can restore my sense of location. Or whatever. That way I’ll know where I’m going.”

  Pook did not protest, so I decided that made sense.

  That black compass had really reamed out my mind, leaving me fundamentally uncertain. I don’t like having my mind messed with.

  I dug in the bag and brought out the white compass. “Invoke!” I quavered at it.

  Something strange happened. The snow on which I stood began to melt. Well, no, not exactly melt, but it was turning slushy. No, not exactly that, either. The ground beneath the snow was softening.

  How could that be? I scraped away the snow and saw that it was bare rock below and that the rock had become pale pink flesh. Was this mountain in fact a monster creature? It couldn’t be; I knew the nature of mountains, and this was definitely a mountain. Yet the rock below me had become flesh.

  The flesh spread rapidly outward. I saw the snow sinking in an expanding ripple, marking the progress of the transformation. The whole mountain was turning to living flesh!

  Pook neighed nervously. He was balancing on the spongy surface uncomfortably and wanted to get off it. But I retreated cautiously from the fringe of the conversion, wanting to understand this phenomenon to whatever extent my primitive barbarian mind was able, so I wouldn’t fall into some trap of magic. Why should the mountain turn to flesh just when I was invoking unrelated magic?

  I looked down at the white compass I had invoked, only to discover that both it and the black one had disappeared, expended. But I still had no idea where the object was. Then I reached into the spell-bag and pulled out the white stone. Wasn’t that the spell that was supposed to turn stone back to flesh? Then why had it happened with the compass?

  I wasn’t bright, but I wasn’t completely dull, either. “Yang!” I exclaimed. “He switched the spells!”

  Pook neighed again. He was right; we had to get off this mountain of blubber! “I don’t know where we’re going, but maybe you do!” I cried. “Go for it!” I jumped onto his back and hung on.

  He started off down the mountain’s north slope. His hooves skidded as the snow made the flesh beneath slippery. I saw that the transformation had now reached to the peak, and it was quivering like jelly. Indeed, the whole mountain was quivering, as its solid bedrock turned soft. Magician Yin had not been kidding about overkill on the spells; this one was strong enough to convert a hundred men and horses to—that is, to reconvert—well, anyway, it was one hideously powerful piece of magic. And it was being wasted, doing me no good at all.

  Pook’s hooves slid as the slope steepened; he was having real trouble keeping his footing, what with the heaving of the mountain itself. “Just sit down and slide,” I suggested. “It’s probably safer and faster.”

  He tried it. We slid down, on cold posteriors, and it was indeed faster—but maybe not safer. We soon got up formidable speed, and there was still a long way to go.

  If Yin’s spell was strong enough to convert a mountain to flesh, how strong was Yang’s spell, the one that turned flesh to stone? They were equal and opposite, weren’t they? What would happen when I triggered the Evil Magician’s spell—and had nothing to counter it? Would it turn me to stone—and Pook, and everything near us? My talent was good, but I couldn’t handle that! If we were doomed to encounter the black stone, that meant we were doomed indeed—by the cruel lie Yang had made of this contest!

  Yang had suggested that I give up this quest, letting him win. That seemed like good advice, in retrospect! Wouldn’t it be better to abort the mission now and at least salvage my life?

  But as I said, the oinkheadedness of barbarians is legendary, and justly so. Even though it now seemed pointless, I was determined to push
on. I had agreed to undertake this mission and I always did what I said I would do if I could, even if it made no sense at the time. And who could tell; maybe my talent would heal me from being stoned. Of course, that might take a few years …

  We slid to the snow line. The flesh had not reached here yet, and the mountain below remained stable. Pook got to his feet, swished his tail about to dislodge the snow sticking to his rear, and moved on down, not eager to have the rock turn mushy under his hooves again. Horses don’t go for that mushy stuff. Actually, I wasn’t sure that would happen; there had to be some limit to the effect, or all of Xanth would become flesh.

  Indeed, the mountain seemed to stabilize above the snow line, if the conversion was continuing, it had slowed; there was just too much rock in the mountain for the magic to digest, if that was the proper word.

  Once we were safely below the region of flesh, we paused to eat and graze. Our slip-sliding had taken some time and more energy, and we were tired and hungry. Horses, I had discovered, had to eat a lot! I had somehow supposed that a man with a steed could travel long distances at high speed; now I knew it wasn’t so. But, of course, Pook had become more to me than mere transportation. Much more. Maybe his companionship was more important than his average velocity.

  So we took time to fill our bellies in our separate fashions, foraging for grass and leaves and fruits, and scouted around for a suitable campsite. We were below the level of the snowsnakes, but what about the snow-birds? I didn’t want to have my mind zonked out again by their snow job.

  However, a completely different threat materialized. We had ignored the mountain of flesh because we were beyond its range, we thought. That turned out to be overly optimistic.

  The ground shuddered. At first I thought it was an earthquake—a magical tremor that was very unsettling to experience, resembling as it did the heavy tread of an ogre, but not too dangerous in the open. But then I realized that it emanated from the mountain of flesh above us. The stuff was shaking with increasing violence, as if trying to get free.