Ghost Writer in the Sky

by Piers Anthony

  “The ghost writer in the sky?”

  “That’s it,” Melody agreed.

  “There’s something familiar about that,” Harmony said.

  “You’re thinking of the Mundane song ‘Ghost Riders in the Sky,’” Rhythm said. “It’s about horsemen who ride among the burning clouds, because they lived bad lives.”

  “Oh, a pun,” Harmony said, frowning.

  “And a ghost writer is one who writes a book for another person, anonymously,” Eve said. “We have those in Hades too.”

  “Well, it has to be stopped, punny or not,” Rhythm said. “This princess is not going to pee for any Mundane hack.”

  “That it seems is our challenge,” Harmony said. “We need to find a way to stop this wicked collaboration between the rogue dream horse and the bad writer.”

  “Before someone gets hurt,” Eve agreed.

  “But we can’t touch a ghost, literally,” Eve said. “And we can’t go into Mundania, even if we wanted to.”

  “A ghost,” Harmony said thoughtfully. “Could a ghost stop a ghost?”

  “It might,” Eve said. “We have ghosts in Hades, too. But they can’t be trusted, and motivating one to do anything useful is next to impossible.”

  “Or Mundania,” Harmony said. “Could we prevail on a live Mundane to deal with the ghost writer, such as by taking away his book of fairy tales?”

  “So we need a ghost in Xanth, or a live person in Mundania,” Dawn said.

  “Could a person be both?” Eve asked.

  “How?”

  “The same way as the writer. Dreaming.”

  “But we don’t have a dream horse to carry such a dreamer into Xanth,” Rhythm said. “There’s already too much trouble of that kind.”

  “But if there were another way?”

  “What other way?”

  “Maybe a magic mirror,” Eve said.

  “Magic doesn’t work very well in Mundania,” Rhythm snapped.

  “Suppose we crafted a picture?” Dawn asked. “Actually a portal. In Mundania it would be just a picture of Xanth, but if the right person attuned to it, he might step into it and be in Xanth, albeit in a ghostlike state.”

  “Now that’s a notion,” Eve said. “But how do we find such a person?”

  “Maybe you could pose in dishabille just inside the picture, as if heading for an ellipsis,” Dawn suggested with a trace of a fragment of a bit of a smile, “That would bring any Mundane lad leaping into the picture.”

  “Or you could turn skeleton and do the same with your nice bones,” Eve snapped back.

  “Girls, girls,” Harmony said, though they were five years older than the triplets. However, Harmony’s future as King of Xanth lent her a certain occasional gravitas.

  “Aww,” Rhythm said. “They were just trying to get a little naughty.” She of course was the authority on naughtiness.

  “Or you could do the Princess and the Pee skit for them,” Melody said.

  Rhythm opened her mouth for an angry retort, but was overtaken by a passing giggle. That incident had indeed demonstrated the limits of her naughtiness.

  “The picture/portal may be a good idea,” Harmony said seriously. “We could select a scene that looks downright mundane, only with little details that suggest it is not so. Only an observant person would catch it, and that would be the one we want.”

  “Let’s do it,” Dawn said. “The three of you can cube your magic to craft a portal that would translate a person between the two realms, while Eve and I set about making a path that will lead any dream ghost to Caprice Castle, where I can acquaint him with the situation and enlist his aid.”

  “But would he cooperate?” Harmony asked. “Mundanes can be remarkably obstinate.”

  “You should know,” Rhythm said. “How many years have you been courting that Mundane man and being balked? Have you even gotten him into bed yet?”

  “Five years. No. But Bryce is weakening.”

  “You do know you could marry any man you chose, without even having to flash your panties? You’re smart and pretty and the future King of Xanth, for pity’s sake. The man’s a fool.”

  “No more a fool than the cyborg who took up with a twelve-year-old girl.”

  “I used an aging spell and hauled him into a love spring. He couldn’t help it.”

  “Well, I didn’t stoop to any such tactics, sister dear.”

  “Which is why you can’t nail him, sister dear.”

  “Girls, girls,” Eve said, imitating Harmony’s voice perfectly when she had said it. This time they all laughed. They loved teasing each other about their naughtinesses.

  “Let’s face it,” Melody said. “Cooperation won’t be a problem. When Dawn turns on the charm, that mundane man will do whatever she asks.”

  The others nodded soberly. Dawn, with her talent of knowing everything about any person she touched, could be angelically persuasive.

  “But whom do we choose, and how?” Dawn asked.

  “That’s easy,” Melody said. “Make the portal appealing to any young, unattached, suitably impulsive, and not too smart Mundane who passes by.”

  “Appealing?” Eve asked. “In what way?”

  “A smidge of mind reading will do. Just enough to pick up a lurking desire. Then that image can appear on the screen.”

  “But Mundane men are interested in only one thing,” Eve protested.

  “Just like Xanth men,” Dawn agreed. “So it can show a pretty girl, beckoning.”

  “We need more discrimination than that,” Harmony said. “Better to block that out and tune in to someone who likes nature.”

  “That should do it,” Rhythm agreed.

  A glance circulated and came to rest in the center. They had reached their decision.

  Just in time. There was a commotion in the hall as man, bird, and children brought their eye scream ball fight to the princesses’ chamber. It was about to get messy. But fun.

  Chapter 3

  Portal

  The gallery was having a sale of surplus paintings. Tartan had little interest in art, but was curious, so went to look at the offerings. Sure enough, they were dull, boring, and tedious, not his type of thing at all. Not that he could afford art anyway; this was mere window shopping.

  Then he passed a painting titled “Mystery,” and backtracked to look at it again. It was simply a jungle scene, a path leading back through the trees toward some hidden goal. Completely ordinary. But it held him. Where did that path go? He wanted to know.

  There was a bench opposite the painting. Tartan sat down on it and gazed into the scene. Now he noticed that there were words along the base. Well, letters, anyway. BNX MJQB TH AOEUI. What did they mean? The more he tried to focus on them, the more obscure they became.

  “May I join you?”

  Tartan looked up. There was a young woman in a white blouse and tan skirt, not pretty, not plain, just anonymously ordinary. Much like himself in his white T-shirt and khaki trousers. She even had brown hair and brown eyes, as he did, except that her hair was longer and her eyes more delicate. “Sure. It’s a public bench.”

  She sat down beside him. “I see you are looking at the Mystery painting.”

  “Yes. I’m no judge of art. There’s just something about the jungle scene that interests me. And the nonsensical lettering below it.”

  “Jungle scene? Surely you mean the flower garden.”

  Tartan was surprised. “Are we looking at the same painting?”

  “I think so. The one immediately before us.”

  “Mine is a jungle.”

  “Mine is not. This is curious.”

  He glanced at her. “You’re not joshing me?”

  “Not,” she agreed. “I am Tara. My name means tower. It’s a misnomer; there’s nothing towering about me, in
any respect.”

  “I am Tartan. It means commander in chief. That’s another misnomer; I’ve never had any authority of any kind, and wouldn’t know what to do with it if by some mischance I had it. In fact as a child I got teased about supposedly wearing a skirt. You know, a kilt, with a tartan, though I never wore one.”

  “So we are two completely ordinary people. Hello.” She extended her hand.

  Surprised, he took it, and they shook hands. Small as the gesture was, it moved him. He found himself liking her. He knew this was nonsensical, as she would soon be moving on and he would never see her again. That had always been the way with him and women.

  “And I’ll bet we have nothing in common,” he said. “Except—”

  “Except for our eyes and hair, and the fact that we’re both attracted to this painting,” she said.

  He laughed. “And we can’t even agree on what it is.”

  “So let’s settle this. That blue rose looks so close and real it’s almost as if I could pick it.” She reached toward the painting.

  “Are we allowed to touch it? Don’t want to leave a fingerprint.”

  “I’ll be careful.” Her extended finger touched the painting. “Oh!”

  “What, prick yourself on a thorn?”

  “It’s not there!” she exclaimed, drawing her hand quickly back.

  “Of course it’s there. It’s a painting.”

  “Then what’s this?” She held up her hand. It was empty.

  “What’s what?”

  She looked at her hand. “I thought I picked a petal.” She brought her fingers to her nose. “In fact I smell it. Here, see what you think.” She held her hand out to him.

  Tartan sniffed her delicate fingers. There was a definite odor of rose. “Your perfume?”

  “I don’t use perfume. That’s the rose I touched.”

  Tartan considered. Had she really brushed a blue rose? So he reached to the painting himself.

  His finger found no resistance. Instead his hand passed through the surface and went to the path. He picked up a fallen yellow leaf.

  “From the path,” he said, showing it to her.

  “But your hand is empty.”

  He looked. So it was. “I guess it felt more real than it was.”

  Now it was her turn to consider. “I think this is more complicated than we realized.”

  “Maybe we should alert the proprietors.”

  “Let’s explore a bit more first. This is really odd.”

  “They might think we’re tetched,” he agreed. “Not only do we see two different pictures, we can touch them, in a manner.”

  “Do you believe in the supernatural?”

  “No, really. There must be some rational explanation.”

  “That’s the way I see it,” she said. “But now we’ve discovered two things about this painting that are really hard to explain in any rational sense.”

  “Could it be a—a portal of some kind? A window to another place?”

  “Why would such a thing be in a gallery, let alone for sale cheap?”

  “Why, indeed!” he said. “How about this: someone made an experimental device that connects two places. He didn’t want anyone to steal it, so he framed it as a painting and put a nonsensical title on it. Then he died in a traffic accident, and his inheritors, having no idea of its nature, put it up for sale as they liquidated the estate. So it wound up in the gallery, and folk who look at it see just ordinary scenes. Until we picked up on something else, just enough to make us wonder.”

  She nodded. “So should we tell the proprietor?”

  “I don’t think so. He’ll either figure we’re crazy, or worse, steal the portal for himself. It must be extremely valuable.”

  “It had to have come here because they bought it cheap. We need to buy it.”

  “Yes!” he agreed. “At least we appreciate it for what it is, even if we have no idea what it is.”

  “But can we afford it? I have only thirteen dollars with me.”

  “And I have twelve, and change.”

  “Maybe they’ll accept a bid.”

  “Let’s try.”

  They got up and went to the office window. “We’d like to buy one of your paintings,” he said. “But we don’t have much money.”

  “Which one?” the bored clerk asked.

  “It’s titled ‘Mystery.’”

  “Oh, that one. It’s nothing. Make an offer.”

  “Twenty-five dollars,” Tara said.

  “Sold.”

  Amazed, they pooled their cash and handed it over. The clerk wrote out a receipt, and they went to take the painting. Soon he was carrying the large padded package.

  “Um, there are details we didn’t think of, in our rush to get the painting,” Tartan said. “Such as where to take it. I live across town. I took a bus to get here.”

  “I have a third-hand car, but didn’t need it for this. My apartment’s down the street, in walking distance. We can take it there.”

  “You don’t mind my, um, visiting?”

  Tara turned her face to him. “This is bigger than both of us.”

  That seemed to suffice. They walked to her small efficiency apartment, which was nondescript, what she could afford.

  “What now?” he asked as he set down the package.

  “I’m so excited about this portal, I just want to learn more about it.”

  “Me too.”

  They propped it up against the wall opposite her bed, where there was space for it. It was about a yard high and almost as wide. Tara reached in and failed to pluck a blue rose from her garden, and Tartan failed to scoop up a handful of dry leaves from his jungle path.

  “I wonder,” she said.

  “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  “I think I am. That maybe we could enter that realm, whatever it is, and then we’d be able touch it more substantially.”

  “Yes. Maybe it just doesn’t let its things be passed through to our realm.”

  “I want to step into that garden. But I’m scared.”

  “Exactly. Let me test it first. If I disappear and am never seen again, the painting is yours to keep.”

  “That’s gallant of you. But I’m nervous that that might actually happen. I don’t think you should risk it.”

  “Someone has to risk it.”

  “I suppose so. Still—”

  “Tara, I’m ready to take the risk. It isn’t as if I have a great job or prospects anyway.”

  “What is your job?”

  “I work in a warehouse. I use a small electric forklift to move crates around. It’s dull, and the pay’s not much, but it’s what I could get.”

  “I keep accounts for a small manufacturer of novelty scarves. I’d gladly give it up, if I had any alternative.”

  “We’re like two mice in the rat race. So let me take a chance, here.”

  Tara nodded. “Then maybe, maybe—”

  “Maybe what?”

  “This.” She stepped close and kissed him on the cheek. “Godspeed.”

  Tartan liked that amazingly well, but kept his reaction in check, careful not to take her gesture as more than it was: encouragement. “Thank you.”

  Tara sat on the bed, gazing at the portal.

  He ducked down and put his left foot through the frame. It landed on the jungle path. He shifted his balance and came up inside the jungle scene.

  It had worked! He was definitely in it. The air was warm and sweet, with the trace of a breeze. The path led ahead, somewhere.

  He turned to look back, half afraid that there would be nothing but more path behind him, so that he was caught in the new scene. But the framed portal was there, showing Tara sitting expectantly on the bed. Good enough.

  “Haloo!” he called,
but there was no reaction. She couldn’t hear him. Could she see him? He lifted his hand in a wave. Tara waved back.

  Good enough. He stooped to pick up a dry leaf. But his hand passed through it without more than the suggestion of contact.

  Startled, he walked to the nearest tree trunk and patted the bark. But his fingers went through it. The tree was a ghost!

  No, he was the ghost. That was why he had been unable to take the leaf out, before. However solid he was in the real world, he was only an apparition here.

  It was time to get out of here. If he could. He stooped and put a foot through the frame of the portal, then eased himself out. He was back in the real world.

  Tara hugged him. “Oh, Tartan, I was afraid you were in trouble!”

  “I’m solid,” he said, half in wonder.

  She laughed as she let him go. “That’s my impression.”

  “But in there I was a ghost. I couldn’t really touch anything.”

  “So I gathered. I worried that you’d died and become a spirit.”

  “At least you saw me, there in the jungle.”

  “I saw you there in the garden.”

  That brought him up short. “Maybe you should try it now.”

  “Yes. Watch.”

  He sat on the bed while she hiked up her skirt and put one leg through the portal, then the other. She had nice legs.

  Then, in the jungle, she faced him and waved. He waved back. They were in contact, at least to that extent.

  She went to pick a leaf off a low branch. Her hand passed through it. She nodded. Then she stepped back through the frame.

  He stood to meet her, uncertain whether to hug her, though he wanted to. She solved that dilemma by hugging him again. “You’re right! I was a ghost. I couldn’t pick that rose.”

  “You were in your rose garden?”

  “Of course I was. Didn’t you see?”

  “I saw you in the jungle.”

  She paused. “My better judgment tells me we should back off now. This is downright spooky, apart from the portal aspect.”

  “So does mine.”

  “Let’s cross together.”

  “Right,” he agreed, laughing. He could no more leave this mystery alone than she could. “But maybe only briefly, then take time to consider.”