“Yes.”
“Nevertheless, it seems I owe you.”
“Not at all,” Dolin said. “The right thing would not be the right thing were it done for profit. We will leave you, now that you are safe.”
“This is persuasion?” Tartan asked Ted.
“Wait and see.”
Amara remained unsatisfied. “But you need me to locate the Goddess Isis.”
“This is true. But you must help us because you want to, not because you owe us anything.”
Amara sighed. “I don’t want to. But I am constrained.”
“How so?”
“Because I am serving as a host, similar to three of you. My ghost is impressed by your demeanor and your action, and will speak with you now.”
“You’re a host?” Tartan asked. “For whom?”
Amara’s aspect shifted. She seemed to become taller, more decisive, almost regal. She also radiated potent sex appeal, something that had been absent before. “For me. I am the Goddess Isis.”
“Isis!” Tara exclaimed. “We didn’t know!”
The mouth quirked. “So I gather. You did what you did because you believed it was the right thing, seeking no reward. All of you.”
“Well, yes,” Emerald said. The women were talking because the very presence of the goddess put Tartan and surely Dolin at serious risk of freaking out. “We’re sort of an impromptu group, becoming friends, and it seems we have some common values. Such as not letting trolls abuse innocent maidens.”
“I have not often encountered that, Dragon Lady. I respect such honor, though recently it cost me supreme power in Xanth. You may have helped Amara out of the goodness of your hearts, without thought of gain, but I do regard it as a debt to be repaid. It would have been quite awkward for me to find another suitable host, and probably worse for Amara. What do you want of me?”
“We—we understand that you are the only one who can stop the Ghost Writer from messing with Xanth,” Tara said. “We—we want to ask you to do so.”
The Goddess frowned, and the nearby foliage seemed to wilt a bit. She was as potent in her displeasure as in her pleasure. “And of course it was one of the Ghost Writer’s naughty little fancies that set Amara up to be cooked by the troll. We are not pleased.”
“That floating sign!” Emerald said. “A story title!”
“Exactly. I was absent, as I do not join her continuously, and Amara did not recognize it for what it was. She thought it referred to a confection, a kind of cookie. By the time I took note, it was too late. Then the four of you acted in a manner I could not, as here I am merely a spirit with no physical force. Had the troll been female, I might have entered her and dissuaded her from cooking.”
That made Tartan wonder: could he have turned ghost and entered the troll? And turned him away from the cooking, etc.? Had he been a fool?
“The troll would have been an unwilling host,” Ted said. “That would have been tricky. You would not have the soul power of the Goddess, who has had centuries to develop her craft.”
“So you will help us?” Tara asked.
Isis frowned. “I did not say that. Let me explain: I am physically confined to the infernal comic strip, constantly surrounded by abysmal puns. Only my spirit can range outside the strip, and its power is limited. You surely understand.”
“We do,” Tara said.
“Were I physically outside the strip, I surely could smite the Ghost Writer, one way or another. But unless he should venture into the strip, I am largely helpless to deal with him. Get me out of the strip, and I will certainly help you.”
“How can we do that?” Tara asked.
The Goddess laughed without humor. “If I knew that, I would have escaped long since. Certainly the Xanthly authorities will not allow it; it was they who confined me to the strips. It seems that the powers that be in Xanth prefer that I remain confined. We have to hope that there is some other route.”
“Oh, my,” Tara said. “We shall have to work on that.”
“Do so. Meanwhile Amara will remain in your company, and I will check her every so often. She can also summon me at need. Fare well.” The aura of the Goddess faded.
Amara was herself again. “Now you know,” she said.
“Now we know,” Tartan said, recovering his poise once the overpowering visage of Isis was gone. “It may be just as well that the goddess manifest only intermittently, as we men would not be much use in her presence.”
Dolin nodded agreement, then focused on Amara. “I sense that there may be a devious route, and it connects to you. We need to know more about you. What is your talent?”
Amara shrugged. “That won’t help. It is knowing where something will be, but not where it is now.”
“That is curious. Can you provide us with an example?”
“Certainly. A deer fly will be beside the enchanted path by the time we return to it. I have no idea where the deer is now.”
Dolin nodded. “Then let us return to the enchanted path. It is certainly safer than this pond.”
They made their way back to the path. As they approached it, no deer fly was evident. But as they stepped onto the path, disappointed, the winged deer flew down from behind a cloud and landed nearby. She glanced at them curiously, then spread her wings again and flew away.
“Point made,” Emerald said, smiling. “There seemed to be no way to predict that, short of magic.”
“So could you know when a way to free the goddess was about to manifest?” Tartan asked.
Amara was surprised. “I don’t know. It’s possible, but hardly certain.”
“Let’s find a rest stop where we can relax,” Tara said. “So we can get to know you better, Amara.”
“Now I am amenable,” Amara agreed.
They found the rest stop, and rested, of course. All of them were tired from their exertions and the tension of the rescue.
“I’m just an ordinary girl,” Amara said. “Undistinguished until I reached the age of maturity. Then it became apparent that I had no interest in storks, despite that of the boys. Also no interest in romance. But they kept pressing me despite my negations, so finally I departed my village and wandered on my own. One evening as I relaxed, alone, beside a branch of the comic strip, the Goddess approached me, explaining that she wished to learn more about Xanth but could not visit it physically, being confined as she told you. Would I be willing to act as a sometime host for her spirit? She promised not to embarrass me, but mainly just to watch. And I asked what’s in it for me? She replied that she could provide me with virtually irresistible sex appeal. I said no way, I already had more of that than I cared for. Then she said that there were times when such appeal could be useful, such as when I might want a favor from a man. For example, if I were hungry and he had food. I would not have to gratify his burgeoning passion; I could make him give me the food just by hinting that I might later become amenable. Or if there were some ugly chore I had to do, I could get a man to do it for me. Men are highly manageable, she explained; their storkly interest is like the ring in the nose of a bull, and they can be readily led, if a girl is proficient in that venue, as she herself was. I realized that she was right; she could be useful on occasion. So I agreed to be her sometime host, and went about my way, avoiding people. So it has been, until now.”
“This is not completely proper,” Dolin said. “You should help us only if you wish to, apart from the will of the goddess, and travel with us only if that is your own preference, not hers.”
Amara smiled at him. “As you know, I am not interested in passion with you, of whatever kind. But you did save my life, and you seem like a fine man despite your mystery. I believe I would like to be your friend, if that is possible without your thoughts interfering.”
“He makes a fair friend,” Emerald said. “He honors boundaries despite having thoughts.”
Dolin considered. “You are not a princess, Amara, so I have no romantic prospect with you. If you keep your clothing on, my mind will not entertain many thoughts. This works with Emerald, even though she is a princess, and with Tara, who has no more interest in me than you do.”
“Speak for yourself,” Tara said. “When I look at you, I wish I were a Xanthly princess. I do get thoughts, unmaidenly as it may be to confess it.”
“Oh,” he said, taken aback.
“Don’t be concerned. My main interest is in Tartan; I’m just window shopping. But I have come to understand how the sight of an attractive person can affect the outlook of others.”
“Window shopping?”
“It’s a Mundane phenomenon. Pretty items are displayed in store windows, and we gaze at them and wish we could have them, though we know better.”
“I wish I could have my memory.”
Tara smiled. “Not the same. You really do need your memory. Most window shops are frivolous.”
“Do you regard yourself as Prince Dolin’s friend?” Amara asked her.
“Yes, I believe I do,” Tara said. “Though I hardly know him.”
“None of us really know him,” Emerald said. “He hardly knows himself. But he is a friend.”
“On that basis I am satisfied to join your group, apart from what Isis says,” Amara said. “And to be a friend to all of you, now that you understand my nature.”
“This seems to be the right thing,” Dolin said.
“So where do we go from here?” Tartan asked. He was glad that no one had questioned him about thoughts, especially when the Goddess had manifested.
Dolin frowned. “I have a certain ongoing awareness of right and wrong, so that I can remain right. It feels right for us to park here for the night, becoming comfortable in each other’s presence. But tomorrow feels like a storm. I fear that there is mischief coming, and there will be no right choice, only wrong ones. This alarms me. I have not before anticipated such a pass.”
“You’re a prince,” Amara said. “Princes tend to have powerful talents. Is yours Magician class?”
“I do not know. Perhaps that, too, is masked from my awareness.”
“I ask because Magician-caliber talents are thought to have breadth as well as strength. It may be that not only can you do the right thing, you can guide yourself to it.”
He shook his head. “I fear not. I see no path to the right thing tomorrow, only confusion. I am uncomfortable.”
“That’s the thing,” Amara said. “If your talent is strong enough to lead you, the fact that this time it seems to be failing is significant. Something quite ugly may be brewing, that none of us can avoid.”
“Maybe it concerns only me,” Dolin said. “Maybe if I separate from the rest of you, the mischief will spare you.”
“No,” Emerald said firmly. “If you face mischief, I mean to be there to help you navigate it.”
“I agree,” Tara said.
“And I,” Tartan said.
“And I,” Amara said.
“But why put yourselves in possible danger?” Dolin asked.
“This is the nature of friendship,” Emerald said. “You could have avoided danger by declining to tackle the troll.”
“But that would not have been the right thing!”
“Exactly,” Amara said. “We will face your mischief with you, if it is truly yours and not ours anyway. For friendship.”
Dolin looked around, but found only agreement with the others. “I am moved.”
“I think it is time for Tara and me to go home,” Tartan said. “But rest assured we will return in the morning.”
The others waved them farewell.
Back in Mundania, they took their turns with the bathroom, then rejoined on the bed. “You can pretend I’m Amara,” Tara said, smiling as she slipped out of her clothing.
“I don’t know. Is she animated by the Goddess?”
“Of course. Do you think she would touch you otherwise?”
“And you can pretend I’m Dolin.”
“I have a better idea. Let’s just be ourselves.”
“Only I wish we could be so in Xanth, free of hosts.”
“That makes me wonder. Could we do the ellipsis as ghosts in Xanth?”
That seriously intrigued him. “We can see and hear each other as ghosts, as long as we’re touching here. Can we also touch each other in that manner?”
“Let’s find out!”
“But can we go through the portal and not be in our hosts?”
“Let’s find out,” she repeated. “We can focus on being just beyond the picture, this time.”
So, bare, they held hands and stepped through the portal. They made it, and looked back to see their naked bodies lying on the bed beyond. Their hands remained solid to each other.
They tried to make a hasty bed of ferns, but couldn’t touch the foliage. So they lay down on the bare ground, but floated slightly above it. So they simply drew each other together in the air. They clasped and kissed so passionately that cute little hearts floated out. Then came an intense ellipsis.
. . .
Afterward—ellipses tended to be followed by afters—they stepped back through the portal and merged back into their bodies. “We did it!” he said.
“And it was just as good as with our physical bodies.”
“So now we know: ghosts can have sex.”
“On a mattress of air.”
Then they got serious. “What do you think threatens us tomorrow?” he asked.
“I have no idea. But I fear it.”
“Yet no way will we skip it.”
“And desert our friends? Never.”
Tartan realized it was true: their friends were in Xanth. They would be there, no matter what.
Chapter 7
Lizard of Waz
They arrived back in Xanth just after dawn. The others were stirring and eating breakfast. “Any news?” Tartan asked.
“Nothing,” Prince Dolin said. “Just foreboding and frustration.”
“Did you folk get along okay overnight?” Tara asked.
Emerald laughed. “We did. Your hosts are amusing people, full of Xanthly lore and demon magic, and Amara is great company now that she knows us.”
“And we like the hosts,” Amara said. “As we like the two of you.”
Obviously Amara had integrated with the group.
“But no idea what trouble we face?” Tartan asked. “Or how we can avoid it?”
“None,” Dolin said. “That is driving me to distraction. I am the one who has not been good company.”
“Me too, actually,” Emerald said. “I can turn dragon and protect you from most physical threats, such as trolls or goblins. But we doubt this is exactly physical.”
“And do you see anything useful to us in the near future?” Tara asked Amara.
“I do not. Just a sign.”
“A sign?”
“Words in the air. I can’t quite make it out. It seems like nonsense. But it will be hovering above us.”
“Words in the air,” Tartan said. “Like Troll House Cookies?”
Amara shuddered. “A Ghost Writer sign! Yes, that’s it. But not the same words.”
“We’re here to stop the Ghost Writer,” Tara said thoughtfully. “Could he be aware of us?”
“That seems likely,” Tartan said. “Because we messed up his nasty little Cookies story yesterday.”
“So maybe he is writing a story for us,” Dolin said. “One that we may not much like.”
“I think we had better avoid it, if we can,” Emerald said.
“Agreed,” Amara said. “Let’s get out of here.”
But the moment they stepped out of the rest area, the sign appeared over their heads.
THE LIZARD OF WAZ
“Oh!” Amara exclaimed. “I am Doorthy from Mundania, an innocent girl, and I have just arrived in a tornado because of a freak accident.”
Doorthy?
“And I am the Lizard,” Emerald said. “Animated by the Wicked Witch of the Vest, and I am pursuing you with the intention of toasting you. The only way you can save yourself is to flee to the Ruby City, the capital of the Land of Waz, which is at the other end of the Yellow Tricks Road, and beg the Wazard of Whiz to help you.”
“The Wazard of Whiz?”
“His favorite expression is ‘Whiz on it!’ You have a problem with that?”
“Yes I do,” Amara said. “It’s uncouth.”
“He’s an uncouth man. That’s not the half of it. Just call him the Whiz of Waz. Now shall we get down to business?” She turned dragon and began huffing up a bellyful of fire.
“Oh, I must flee!” Amara said, and ran on ahead.
None of the others moved. Tartan found himself anchored in place, mute, and knew the others were too. This was awful! Their own group was being turned against itself.
Worse, he recognized the title. It was a parody of a popular Mundane fantasy story. Just as the Ghost Writer had written things like the “Princess and the Pee,” he had messed with another tale, and it seemed assigned them roles within it. Tartan wasn’t sure what his own role would be, but knew he would soon enough find out.
Amara ran out of sight. The Lizard did not pursue closely. It seemed that her job was to herd Doorthy to her destination, rather than actually toast her. But Tartan was not much relieved. This story was unlikely to end well for them.
However, Tartan was able to follow Amara in his ghost form, which was not restricted to his host’s body. She ran along the path, which he now saw was formed of yellow tiles. She passed a sign saying YELLOW TRICKS ROAD. Uh-oh.
Sure enough, soon one of her feet, which he saw wore a silver slipper, sank into a squishy tile that was not as solid as it looked. Amara stumbled and almost fell. “Bleep!” she swore, and the nearby brush wilted, not able to tolerate such vile language from an innocent maiden.
Other tiles were firm, and she was able to resume progress, though now she stepped more carefully. But now her slipper had gooey grime sticking to it. She had to pause to remove it and wipe it off on the turf beside the path. In the process she showed a bit more leg than was seemly. Was that part of the script? Did the Ghost Writer want to sneak peeks? Tartan was suspicious.
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