Well, they would surely find out soon enough.
Princess Amara rolled her gold ball along the path ahead, then skipped along to pick it up. She rolled it again, but this time it veered off the path and dropped into a rabbit hole with a startled woof.
Oh, no! Were they to go through the rabbit hole into Alice’s wonderland? Was there no limit to the Ghost Writer’s plagiarism?
Amara ran to the hole and put her arm in. “O, woe is me!” she wailed. “I can’t reach it. I have lost my most precious possession. The hole is too deep.”
Also too small for her to scramble into, fortunately.
There was a stirring in the adjacent bushes. A big pig appeared. No, a hog, per the story title. “What’s up?” he snorted.
The Princess burst into tears. “I was playing with my golden ball, my very favoritest thing, and it rolled into a rabbit hole and I can’t reach it,” she wailed.
“Hmm,” the Hog snorted, in a nice trick of pronunciation. “That is a picklement. What would you give me if I dug it out for you?”
“Oh, I would give you anything, anything at all, if you will only rescue my poor gold ball.”
“Anything?” the Hog snorted with deep dirty significance. Tartan remembered another kind of naughty comic skit, wherein the dialog was between an innocent girl spoken in high falsetto and a lecherous old man spoken in low resonance. Such as his “The whip, the whip, the whip!” and her “No, no, no!” “The whip, the whip, the whip!” “No, no, anything but the whip!” “Anything?” in a tone fraught with sinister implications. And her response as she caught on: “The whip! The whip! The whip!” Had the Ghost Writer heard that skit? This princess might well be better off with the whip.
“Yes, anything!” she blithely agreed. Which was the problem with true innocence.
“Will you take me into your palace and let me share your royal life?” the Hog asked.
“Yes!”
“Good enough,” he snorted. Then he oriented his tusky snout and rooted in the ground, scraping out the dirt. In a period of time between shortly and soon he excavated a deep hole. He found the ball, took it in his mouth, and tossed it up out of the hole to land at the feet of the princess.
“Oh, thank you!” she exclaimed, picking up her ball and hugging the woofing out of it. Then she turned and ran back to the palace, quite forgetting the Hog, as her attention span was quite short.
But the Hog followed, and when she entered the palace, so did he.
Now Emerald animated. “Oh, my dear! What’s this!”
The Princess glanced back. “Oh, that’s just the nasty old Hog, mother. I told him he could come in.”
“In that case, so be it,” the Queen said without complete enthusiasm.
Dolin appeared. “What’s a pig doing out of the sty?” he demanded.
“That is the Princess’s friend,” the Queen explained.
“Daughter, explain this,” the King said sternly.
“He rescued my gold ball,” the Princess said. “I told him he could share my life. But you can kick him out, not that I care.”
“If you made that promise, you must honor it,” the King said grimly, just as any proper parent would.
So the Hog came to live in the palace with the Princess. When it was time for the noon banquet, he had a place right next to her, and was served a royal repast by the cook, Mera. When it was time for her to be tutored in princessly deportment by the royal tutor Tartan, the Hog learned proper manners too. That helped, because after that he no longer relieved himself on the lovely tiles of the floor. When it was time for her to water the royal flowers, he accompanied her to the garden.
Tartan and Tara took their break, as they needed to attend to their mundane bodies. Their hosts would keep the narrative going.
“So far it is playing out as the Ghost Writer has scripted it,” Tartan said. “But what happens when that ends?”
“When the Prince hauls the Princess off to his castle? We may have to end it before then.”
“I’m still not clear how this will nullify him. Getting out of a skit is one thing, but getting him to stop all the skits is another.”
“Monica says that Isis has something in mind. I think she plans to bewitch him with her sex appeal and make him her willing love slave.”
“He should be able to get out of that as readily as we get out of his skit.”
“Monica says that when Isis really tries, she can just about ensorcel a troll. I gather she made a demonstration one night when we were away. She holds back mainly because Amara doesn’t like it.”
“Well, according to the Good Magician, Isis is the one who can do it.”
“Yet I share your doubt. Kiss me and make me forget all this.”
He kissed her, but she didn’t forget. So they returned to Xanth, dispirited.
“You missed a boring excursion,” Ted told Tartan. “Those flowers are nowhere near the match of Rose of Roogna’s garden.”
“The crisis will come at dusk, when the Ghost Writer phases into the scene,” Tartan said. “That’s what we’re waiting for.”
Dusk came. It was time for the Princess to retire. Tara the maid brought the basin of warm water for her to wash with, and the Hog got cleaned up too. He was now a fairly handsome swine. Then the maid turned down the silken bed covers—and the Hog climbed into the bed.
The Princess stared. “Now wait a moment or three,” she said. “I’m not about to sleep with a big fat ugly stinky Hog in my bed.”
He was no longer stinky, but that might be a moot point. “Your father the King said that if you promised, you had to honor it,” the maid reminded her. “The Hog is with you throughout.”
“Oh phooey on that!” the Princess screamed, outraged. She jumped on the bed and pushed the Hog out so that he fell on the floor with a meaty thunk.
“Ow!” he exclaimed, no longer snorting. Then he stood up. The evil spell on him had been broken by the thud, and he had become a Prince. He had also, Tartan realized, become the Ghost Writer, who had taken his place now that it was dusk. “You deserve to be spanked, you undisciplined girl.”
“You wouldn’t dare!” the Princess said. “I’ve never been spanked in my life!”
“There’s always a first time.” The Prince caught her, threw her across his lap as he sat on the bed, hauled up her nightie, and smartly spanked her bare bottom. It was amazingly comely anatomy, rippling splendidly, and Tartan realized that Isis was enhancing it for the occasion. She was beginning her ensorcelment. He had to shield his eyes before he freaked out, even without seeing panties. Could the Goddess prevail?
“Ow!” the Princess screamed more in indignity than in pain. Then she did a double take. “You smacked my bottom! Only the man I marry can do that.”
“Indeed,” the Prince agreed. “The nuptials will be next week at my castle. But first we’ll celebrate our engagement with a resounding ellipsis.” He eyed the enhanced bottom with something more than punishment in mind. Isis was scoring. Then he heaved her onto the bed, bottom up. “I trust your inner spirit will do her part.”
And would she? Tartan wondered. Assuming Isis had the power to make him her love slave, would she expend it on this ilk? She had balked before.
At which point Amara said “Dream Skit, Scheme Quit,” and exited the scene. The others followed suit, including Tata, causing the scene to dissolve.
“What’s this?” the Ghost Writer demanded, startled. His own role as Prince had faded with the demolition of the scene.
“This is the showdown, you ludicrous pervert,” Amara said. “You have no power over us. There’ll be no ellipsis.”
“We’ll see about that,” he said, taking hold of her.
Isis manifested. “Yes we will.” She inhaled as she stared into his eyes.
And suddenly the contest was on. The Ghost Writer wanted to h
ave an ellipsis with the Goddess in human host, while Isis wanted to enslave him emotionally without soiling her host’s body with his brutish passion. It was something to watch.
“Take off your clothes,” he said.
“Take off yours.”
They both did so, matching item for item until both were bare. The body that had been Amara became phenomenally shapely. Her hair coiled down around her shoulders and breasts. Her eyes grew luminous. Her lips parted invitingly.
“Wow,” he murmured.
“Kiss me,” she breathed.
But he suddenly jerked back. “No. Spread your legs.”
“If he kisses her, he’s done for,” Ted said. “Her kisses are magic. I know; she kissed me once, just to demonstrate. I would have become her love slave if she had let me. But it was just to show me.”
“But if she spreads her legs, he’ll have her without being enslaved,” Tartan said. “That’s what he wants. Passion without commitment. But what warned him?”
“I think it’s the Night Colt coaching him.”
“I’ll see.” Tartan caught Tara’s eye, then pulled out of the host.
Tara did the same. The two of them stood together as ghosts.
And there was the Colt, visible to their ghost forms as he wasn’t to their solid forms. Sure enough, he was standing by the bed, murmuring something to the Ghost Writer. The horse’s mouth did not move, but it was clear that he was communicating. “Telepathy,” Tara said.
Isis leaned forward invitingly. “First the kiss.”
The Ghost Writer started to lean toward her, unable to help himself. But the Colt nudged him and he aborted the motion. “No. First the legs.”
She lay down on the bed. “Then join me,” she said, parting her legs. They were phenomenal; Tartan would have been lost, had he been the target.
The Ghost Writer got down beside her, then quickly rolled over to cover her. But her legs snapped shut as she aimed a kiss at his mouth. He barely turned his face away in time.
“Bleep!” they said almost together. Then they both laughed.
“I dare you to tackle me without the Colt coaching you,” she said.
“No way! You’ve got a four thousand year lead in experience.”
“Then come to me in the comic strip. I’ll have my own body there. Then I’d be free to spread my legs.”
“You’d have panties on, and freak me out, then kiss me when I’m out of it.”
“At least you’re not stupid,” she said with a certain hint of dawning respect. Tartan realized that the Goddess liked a good fight almost more than a conquest.
“Bleep! I wish you’d come to me on my terms. We could have such a time.”
“We could,” she agreed. She put her hands to either side of his head, holding it in place. He tried to resist, but his will was clearly being sapped. Slowly she brought her face to his. “Hold still. This won’t hurt at all.”
The Colt lifted a fore-hoof and knocked the Ghost Writer on the head. “Ow!” he exclaimed, turning his face away.
“Bleep! I almost had you there.”
“You almost did,” he agreed, rubbing his head.
“Block off the Colt,” Isis said to Tartan and Tara without looking.
They advanced on the Colt, who eyed them warily. He evidently was not used to being seen by others. They formed a wall of two between him and the couple on the bed. He tried to get around them, but they moved in tandem, maintaining the block. He was ghostly, but so were they; he could not avoid them.
“Hold still,” Isis repeated softly to her victim. Her face was almost blindingly beautiful. No living man could resist for long.
He held still. Victory was incipient.
The Colt dived under them and came up under the Ghost Writer. Then he galloped away, carrying the man.
“Bleep,” Isis said once more. “Dusk is ending and the Ghost Writer has to get back to Mundania before the deadline. I almost had him.”
“You almost did,” Tartan agreed.
“We ran out of time. If I had more time . . .” She shrugged and faded.
Amara was left naked on the bed. “Oh! I faded out. Did anything—?”
“Nothing happened, unfortunately,” Tara told her.
Then the bed dissolved, along with the room and indeed, the palace. It was all part of the crafted dream, now finished.
They had come so close to capturing the Ghost Writer. But Tartan knew they would not get another chance like that. As Isis had said, the man wasn’t stupid.
“We’d better call it a day, and try again tomorrow,” Tara said. “With Plan C, if we can work it out.”
Dolin nodded. “Tomorrow,” he agreed.
Back at the apartment, Tartan and Tara commiserated. “She really would have gotten him, but for the interference of the Colt and the time running out.”
“Yes. She was irresistible, like no mortal woman.” He caught himself. “That is—”
“I know what you mean. I’m no goddess, and wouldn’t care to be one.”
“But they’ll make sure she never gets another chance,” Tartan said, relieved that she wasn’t offended.
“We’ve got to think of something new, that they don’t expect.”
“Did you learn anything more about Monica’s secret love?”
“Almost. It’s definitely one of us, but I still can’t tell whom. If she gets sufficiently distracted, I may be able to tell.”
“Then there’s Mera. What does she have on her mind?”
“I wish I knew. Women are too good at keeping secrets.”
He laughed. “Weird to hear a woman say it.”
“Well, women are more complicated than men. Men want only one thing. Women want many things, in differing degrees.”
“Speaking of one thing—”
She kissed him. “I saw you coming. Have an ellipsis.”
. . .
Next morning, back in their hosts, they found no real progress. “We don’t even know if there’ll be dream skits out there,” Dolin said. “Now that we’ve shown him how we can escape them. That puts us on an even basis, but it’s not enough.”
“He can avoid us and make mischief elsewhere in Xanth,” Mera said.
“First thing to do is to check the location of the Night Colt,” Tartan said. “Tara and I will go ghost and see if he’s here.”
“I will join you,” Isis said, manifesting. “Link with me.”
They linked hands so that the Goddess would be able to interact with them as ghosts. They drew out of their hosts, and the Goddess did join them. Her spirit was as shapely as ever, but this time she had a comprehensive dress that masked it sufficiently so that Tartan had no problem. She could turn it off when she wanted to. They looked around, but there was no sign of the Colt.
“There is something I wanted to consult with you about, privately,” Isis said. “I have been considering Monica. She bears the signs of a hopeless love, and is troubled. I do not think it is kind to let her suffer longer.”
“She loves a man of our party,” Tara said. “But we can’t tell who.”
“I can. I am experienced in the signs. It is Prince Dolin.”
“That’s a relief,” Tartan said. “We feared it might be me.”
“No. You are not her type.”
“A smart handsome prince,” Tartan said wryly.
“She values you as a friend, but you do not turn her on emotionally. No, it is definitely Dolin. But that confuses me. Why doesn’t she say so? They would make a perfect couple.”
“That is our concern,” Tara said.
“I believe it is time to bring this into the open.” Isis said. “That may be painful, but not as painful as watching her become suicidal.”
“Suicidal!” Tartan exclaimed.
“She is really hurting. Onc
e this mission is done, she will have no further reason to live, as she sees it. That’s why we need to act now, before we part company.”
“I will do it,” Tara said. “I would rather betray her confidence than see her die.”
“It is not much of a betrayal,” Isis said.
“I am curious, Goddess,” Tartan said. “I had understood that you were pretty much aloof from ordinary human concerns. Now you really seem to care. Is this a change?”
“Yes. My association with Amara has taught me more of human concerns and emotions. Amara feels some of them only slightly, but she is aware of them. I have come to care about her, and by extension to care about others.” She paused. “Specifically the other members of this party. I have come to regard you as friends, and I find I value that, and would like to keep you as such after the mission is done. Is this unrealistic?”
“Not at all,” Tara said warmly. “It’s human. But we may not be able to visit Xanth after this mission. We don’t know.”
“I could visit you in Mundania. That would be limited to spirit form, unless I occupied your body as I do Amara’s.”
“You are welcome to do that, when,” Tara said. “We have seen how it works with Amara. You let her be herself, except when there is need for you.”
“That is good. Now we had better return before the others worry.”
They returned to their hosts. “No sign of the Night Colt,” Tartan reported. “We looked all around.”
“That’s good,” Dolin said. “We shall search out whatever story skits there are today.”
“There is something else,” Tara said. “It may not exactly be my business, but I think I have to speak.”
“Of course,” Dolin said. “We value your input.”
“It is this: my host Monica is in love.” She paused, and Tartan knew that Monica was silently protesting. “She is not speaking of it, but I will.”
“Monica loves?” Emerald asked. “Who?”
“She loves Prince Dolin.”
“Me!” Dolin said, surprised.
Tara took a breath. “I don’t know why she won’t say it herself, so I must speak on her behalf. You may not have considered her, Prince, but she is actually an excellent match for you. She is the daughter of a demon prince and a naga princess, so she is a princess in her own right, two fold. She qualifies. She can secure your place in this reality. She’s an excellent person in her own right, and she loves you. I think you should marry her.”
Ghost Writer in the Sky Page 30
