Air Apparent

by Piers Anthony

  “A premonition,” Wira suggested.

  “But what would I have to premonition about? I’m just a girl doing her Service for the Good Magician.”

  “Could someone be thinking of you? Of your—underclothing?”

  “I wonder. My bosom does tingle a bit. Maybe that’s it. I once thought being a bare-topped centaur made my curse null, but it’s still lurking.”

  “That’s probably it,” Wira agreed. “Let me know if it gets worse; it might be significant.”

  “I will,” Debra promised. “Anyway, it’s gone now.”

  Then Wira felt something. “A child is in trouble. That way.” She pointed to their right.

  Debra swung right, gliding down toward the ground. “There are a few trees here at the edge of the Region of Air. I don’t see anything else.”

  “That one.” Wira pointed again.

  “Oh, now I see her! A girl in a tree. She looks frightened.”

  “A girl? It was a boy I sensed.”

  “We can ask the girl. Maybe she saw the boy.” Debra flew to the tree and hovered beside it. “Hello! Can we help you?”

  “Oh, I’m so relieved!” the girl replied. “Can you get me down?”

  “I can enable you to float down.” Debra flicked her tail. “Now let go.”

  “But I’ll fall!”

  “No, I made you light. Trust me.”

  The girl let go. Wira felt her amazement. “I’m floating! Just drifting slowly down. That’s amazing.”

  “It’s flying centaur magic.” Debra landed beside the girl. “Hello. I’m Debra Centaur, and this is Wira Human.”

  “I am Ilene, Magician Trent and Sorceress Iris’s daughter.”

  “I remember you!” Wira said, digging out a vial of healing elixir for the scrapes on the girl’s body. The tree limbs had not been kind to her limbs. “You came to the Good Magician’s Castle a week ago to ask a Question.”

  “Oh, now I recognize you,” Ilene said. “You’re the Good Magician’s blind niece.”

  “Daughter-in-law.”

  Wira felt the girl’s embarrassment. “Of course. Anyway, you showed me around the castle, and then up to see the Good Magician. But he refused to help me. I was so disappointed.”

  “He always has good reason,” Wira said. “He doesn’t let folk pay the considerable price of his Answers unless they really need them.”

  “But I did need the answer!” the girl said. “I still do. I’m just getting in trouble without it.”

  There was something here; Wira could sense it. “Tell me about it,” she urged the girl. “The Magician does not share information with me. I knew you were disappointed, but that’s all. Maybe I can fathom the reason he passed you by.”

  “Oh, I don’t want to bore you with my problem,” Ilene protested. “I’m just grateful that you got me safely down from that tree.”

  “Please, I do want to know. It is not like him to be unkind to a child.”

  “I’m no child!” Ilene protested. “I’m eleven years old.”

  “I apologize. It has been some time since I was that age.”

  “That’s all right.” But she didn’t volunteer her story.

  Wira thought of something. “Would you like a ride on the centaur? You can tell us while we fly.”

  “A ride!” the girl exclaimed, excited. All girls of that age loved centaurs.

  They mounted Debra, who flicked them appropriately light, spread her wings, and took off. Wira could feel by the thinning, cooling air that they were soon well above the landscape. Ilene was of course in rapture. And they did elicit her history.

  Ilene was delivered after her parents Magician Trent and Sorceress Iris were rejuvenated. Her older sister was Irene, delivered fifty-two years before, now a grandmother. Actually Irene’s grandchildren, the Three Princesses, were the same age as Ilene. But they were Sorceresses, while Ilene had a mere talent, which made her ashamed, so she didn’t associate with them. The two half-demon children, Demon Ted and DeMonica, were also her age, but Ilene had no demon ancestry, so did not relate well to them either.

  Wira winced. All of Magician Bink’s descendants were spelled to have Magician-caliber talents. But Ilene was not his descendant, so had no such guarantee. She had royal blood, but had been delivered after her parents retired from the throne, so was not quite a princess, either. Not even a part-demon. No wonder she felt out of sorts.

  Ilene’s talent was to make illusions real. That was respectable, but not Magician class. She had practiced diligently with her mother, converting the Sorceress’s illusions of landscapes and creatures to real ones. But here was the rub: without illusions to convert, she could do nothing. Away from her mother, she might as well have been talentless.

  So she had gone to see the Good Magician, her reluctant parents allowing her to go. Her Question was: How could she make something of herself? And the Magician had simply said “You have perspective. Use it.” And sent her away, unrequited. She had been too ashamed to return home with that nonanswer, so she was here trying to figure out what perspective meant. She had always understood that it was a feature of the magic of things, that pretended to let a person pass them by up close, but the distant ones raced to keep up. A person could see it happening, if she watched carefully. That was not magic she had. Her magic dealt with illusions.

  Then she had heard a child crying. She was only eleven, but she was a girl: she had to help a child in trouble. So she had hurried toward the sound. It had looked for a moment as if there were a plain in the hot air, angling up from the ground to distant mountains. Suddenly she had found herself running up that slope. She had looked down, and discovered a tree almost below her feet. This was impossible!

  Of course she had fallen. She had managed to grab onto the foliage of the tree, skinning her knees and elbows, and clung there helplessly, afraid to let go. Until Debra had rescued her. “I’m such a washout,” she said ruefully.

  Wira’s awareness intensified. “The boy you heard—”

  “Oh, I forgot!” Ilene said. “I was going to rescue him, and only got myself in trouble. He must still be there.”

  “Still where? Show us.”

  “Beyond that tree where you found me. On the—the air plain I foolishly imagined.”

  Debra looped around and winged back toward the tree.

  The air plain. This was becoming quite relevant. “You ran up that incline, before realizing that running in air was not your talent, and fell.”

  “Yes. I’m mortified. How could I have done that?”

  “It is almost as if you have a second talent.”

  “But I don’t. I can’t. Nobody has two talents.”

  “But some do have talent with multiple aspects that might seem like several before being understood.”

  “Making illusions real, and running up imaginary plains? I don’t think so.”

  “I do. That plain was an illusion.”

  “Yes it was. That’s why I fell right through it.” Then the girl froze for fully half an instant as a dim bulb formed over her head. “And my talent is to make illusions real!”

  “You made it real,” Wira agreed. “Until you doubted. Then it disintegrated. Aspects of a single talent. You just need to get perspective on it.”

  “Perspective,” Ilene breathed. “Could that be what the Good Magician meant?”

  “It is surely what he meant. You simply need to see your talent from another vantage.”

  The girl was silent, assimilating that.

  They reached the tree. Debra settled on the ground beside it, and they paused to listen.

  There was the sound of a small boy crying. Somewhere in the sky beyond the tree.

  “You know that illusion is there,” Wira said. “I can’t see it, but you can. Make it real again.”

  “I—will try,” Ilene agreed, awed.

  And soon the centaur started walking up an incline. “What do you see?” Wira murmured.

  “An optical illusion,” Debra murmured in
reply. “Like the puddles you can see on hot days that aren’t there. A—a—there’s a word—”

  “Mirage,” Wira said. “A form of illusion.”

  “That’s it! So she can make mirages real. That could be useful on a desert when you’re thirsty.”

  “It could indeed,” Wira agreed.

  “Now we’re coming into a full mirage,” Debra continued. “Trees, fields, a stream—an, an, like a nice island in the desert, an—”

  “Oasis,” Wira said.

  “Yes. It’s really nice, but up in the sky. This is weird.”

  “Literal illusions are.”

  “There he is!” Ilene cried.

  “True,” Debra murmured. “A boy, maybe seven years old, sitting under a palm tree, looking really lost.”

  They approached the boy, whose presence she could feel. “Hello,” Wira called. “May we help you?”

  “I’m lost,” the boy said, his voice perking up.

  “This is really weird,” Debra murmured. “He glows.”

  They came to stand beside him. “Who are you? Where do you live?” Wira asked.

  “I can’t say.”

  “He’s looking at me,” Debra whispered. “At my—front.”

  “He’s male,” Wira reminded her. “Boys lack discretion.” Then she spoke to the boy. “How can we take you home, if you don’t tell us where to take you?”

  That stymied him. He was silent.

  This was odd. A lost glowing boy who wouldn’t give his identity. “Your parents told you not to give personal information to strangers,” Wira said.

  “That’s it! Because they might hurt me.”

  “He’s still looking,” Debra said, not pleased.

  “Give him a ride,” Ilene whispered. “Then he can’t look.”

  That seemed like a good idea. “Do you know the word compromise?”

  He struggled with that. “Each person yields a little.”

  “Very good! Let’s compromise. Tell us your talent, and we’ll take you with us until you get unlost.”

  “Okay. I make mixed metaphors real.”

  “Why that’s like my talent,” Ilene said. “I make illusions real.”

  “Say,” the boy said, warming to her.

  “You must have really mixed them up to get stuck here.”

  “Far pastures are greenest by the dawn’s early light,” the boy said proudly. “Only then I got lost in a pasture.”

  “It happens,” Ilene said. “I’m Ilene, daughter of Magician Trent and Sorceress Iris. I heard you, but then got lost in my illusion when I thought it wasn’t real. Does that makes sense to you?”

  “Sure. I do it all the time.”

  “Come and ride with me,” Ilene said. She seemed cut out to be a babysitter, and that was fine with Wira, who couldn’t do it well blind, and surely with Debra, who couldn’t do it well as a centaur.

  But there was something else. A glowing boy who made mixed metaphors real: she knew who that was. Nimbus, the son of the Demon Xanth and Chlorine. The heir apparent to the fantastic powers and position of the Demon whose mere incidental body radiation accounted for the whole of the magic of Xanth. No wonder he wasn’t supposed to reveal his identity! He was a prime candidate for enormous mischief.

  Ilene lifted Nimbus onto the centaur’s back behind Wira, then mounted behind him, so she could hold him steady. And Wira discovered something else: she could see him! Not with her eyes, exactly, for she wasn’t facing him, but with her awareness of his glow. She remembered that the glow was visible to anyone but his mother, Chlorine. Chlorine wanted an ordinary child, while the Demon Xanth, who preferred to masquerade as a donkey-headed dragon called Nimby, evidently wanted a son with special powers. Chlorine would surely catch on eventually, but by that time might be resigned to having an extraordinary son. That would be for husband and wife to sort out, in due course.

  The centaur was now trotting along the plain, as there was no need to fly; they were already in the air.

  Wira’s musings continued. Yet why was that glow apparent to others, even to the blind? It made the boy all too evident to anyone who knew much about Xanthly lineages. Why tell the boy to conceal his identity, while leaving this giveaway? Wira had half a notion, but wanted to confirm it.

  “We’ll have to call you something,” Ilene said. “Since we don’t have your real name, how about a pretend one? Is it all right if we call you Glow?”

  “Sure,” Nimbus said cheerfully.

  “Glow,” Wira said carefully, “who told you to hide your real name?”

  “Mom.”

  “Not your father?”

  “Dad says no one’s going to hurt me. He’s not worried.”

  There it was: no one would hurt the boy because the Demon Xanth was watching. The glow was a warning that only the most foolish or ignorant folk would ignore. That explained the seeming conflict. Neither Debra nor Ilene recognized him, being too young or new to Xanth, but they meant him no harm, so that was all right.

  “Dad wants me to get experience,” the boy continued. “To get to know the land and the folk. Because—” He broke off, and Wira knew why: he was on the verge of revealing his identity by saying too much.

  “You should be safe with us until you find your way home,” Wira said. She did not want to be cynical, but it seemed unlikely that anything bad would happen to any of them as long as they were in the company of the boy. “We’re not lost. We’re—exploring.”

  “Great!” he agreed enthusiastically.

  “There’s something funny about this plain,” Ilene said. “I made it, I guess, but it seems to have details I don’t think I made. I can’t quite see them, but I know they’re there.”

  “I have the same impression,” Debra said. “It’s as if there is more to this illusion than you made real.”

  Wira spread her awareness out—and discovered people. They were all around, watching the walking party. They were not friendly or unfriendly, just there. They were—

  “The folk of the air plain!” she said aloud.

  “Folk?” Ilene asked. “Are they illusory?”

  “No, they’re real. So I think you can’t make them real. They are merely invisible.” Wira paused, working it out. “Not just that. Undetectable, unless you look for them, and know how to relate. No one has, before, I think.”

  “I suppose it makes sense that if there is a plain, it can be inhabited,” Debra said. “By invisible people. Or whatever.”

  “I wonder whether they know anything we need?” Wira asked. “Such as the location of my—my vision.” Because they were no longer alone, and the continued privacy of the real mission seemed best.

  “Can we ask?” Debra asked, honoring that privacy.

  “I’ll try.” Wira concentrated, attuning to the folk around them as living entities. People! I see you! May we talk?

  There was surprise. The folk of the air were not used to people being aware of them, let alone trying to talk with them. They weren’t sure how to respond.

  Please! I am Wira, in search of my lost husband Hugo. Somehow she knew this was not the occasion for the false mission. I must find him. Can you help me?

  They considered. Then one came close. We were trying to help the boy, but did not know how, because he is of the solid folk. We know not how to help you either.

  They were answering! If we can just talk, that may be all we need.

  The air folk considered. No one has asked before. We will talk with you. First we must take form so your friends can relate to us. But there is a problem.

  This was real progress. Is it something we can fix?

  The Air person nodded. If you wish to. The centaur is unclothed.

  Wira smiled. Centaurs wear no clothing.

  That is the problem. We regard such exposure as objectionable, particularly for our children.

  Wira suppressed her faint amusement. She knew solid folk with a similar attitude. “Debra, the folk of the air prefer that you don some clothing.”

/>   “But centaurs don’t—”

  “Can we humor them?”

  “I suppose,” Debra agreed, nonplussed. “But I have no clothing.”

  Do you have clothing for her? Wira asked.

  Ours would not relate to her.

  Can you make illusion clothing?

  Yes.

  “Oh there’s a bra,” Ilene said. “And a blouse. Just hanging in midair.”

  “They are illusions,” Wira explained. It seemed it was only the human portion of the centaur that needed to be covered. “Now if you will—”

  “Done,” the girl said. “Now they’re real.”

  “And Debra, if you will don them—”

  “Done,” Debra agreed after a bit more than a moment. “They fit perfectly.”

  “She called you Debra,” the boy said. “I want to—”

  “No!” Debra snapped.

  “What are you talking about?” Ilene asked.

  Wira sighed. “Better explain, Debra.”

  “When men—or boys—hear my name, they want to steal my undergarment,” Debra said tightly. “It’s my curse. I thought it was gone as long as I’m a centaur, but it seems not.”

  “I’m sorry,” Ilene said. “I didn’t know.” She spoke to the boy. “Hands off. It’s the Adult Conspiracy. I’m bound by it too.”

  “Aww,” the boy said. But he obeyed. It seemed that his mother had inculcated some manners after all.

  Then centaur, girl, and boy all took note; Wira could feel them reacting. “People!” Nimbus exclaimed.

  “They are the folk of the air, making themselves visible,” Wira explained. “It’s not exactly optical, because I can see them too.” And she could. It was probably what was called mind illusion, where the pictures were projected into the minds of the recipients. Whatever it was, it was a delight, for now she could see the entire scene: people and geography. She seldom had such a chance.

  “A whole landscape,” Debra said. “Trees, lakes, houses, and people. Amazing!”

  “I will take you to Castle Air,” a man said. “I am Higgs, the bosun.” He indicated his boat. “You can define me if you can spell my name.”

  “I am Wira,” Wira said. “And these are Ilene, Glow, and Debra Centaur.”

  “Debra,” he said, looking at her. “De-bra. Suddenly I have this overwhelming urge to make that literal.” He stepped toward her.