Ghost Writer in the Sky

by Piers Anthony

  Then Tara spied something really weird: a small crazy train chugging along on its misshapen tracks. “A Loco Motive!” she exclaimed, delighted. “Help me send it out.”

  They took hold of the tracks ahead of the train and managed to angle them out of the comic strip. The Loco Motive chugged right through and into the massed vampires, who immediately went crazy. What else could they do? This Loco train would make anyone crazy. That took out half a slew of them in a quarter of a fell swoop.

  Tartan found an old rusty skate. He threw it at another vampire, who was outraged. “That was a cheap shot!”

  “Well, it’s a cheap skate,” Tartan said.

  Tara found a tangle of cord formed into the shape of a Y. She threw it out, and it tangled a vampire, who then decided to go elsewhere. It was a Y Knot, useful for making folk change their minds.

  Tartan found what looked like a nose with little legs. He picked it up and flipped it out. It landed on the face of a vampire and tried to run away with the creature’s face. It was a running nose.

  The vampires finally had enough. Blood was one thing, but egregious puns were too much to digest. They flew away.

  The spirit of Isis appeared. “I can move parts of the comic strip,” she explained. “So I extruded a ribbon for you. I see you made good use of it.”

  “Thank you,” Tartan said. “It saved us.”

  “But if you were doing that,” Tara said, “what about tracking the Ghost Writer?”

  “Oh, I realized that was no longer necessary.”

  “But the whole point of the dance was to distract him while you tracked him.”

  “I realized belatedly that when he took my rose, I would know where he was as long as he kept it. We all know where our roses are.”

  Tartan and Tara exchanged half a glance. They had not been separated from their roses, so had not experienced the effect. But Rose of Roogna had mentioned it.

  “So why did he take it?” Tartan asked.

  “Well, he’s never had a rose of his own, so he doesn’t know about their qualities. I think he took it as a bargaining chip. He thought I’d do anything he wanted, to get it back.” She smiled. “Now I will take it back, and he will do anything I want.”

  They flew back to their hosts, who had concluded their dance once the Ghost Writer had departed. They explained the situation.

  “So the next stage will be in Mundania,” Amara concluded, speaking for Isis. “He will not be bothering Xanth further.”

  “How can you be sure of that, Goddess?” Dolin asked.

  Amara stepped up to him and Isis manifested. She kissed him lightly and turned away.

  “You are sure,” he agreed, shaken.

  “Oh, yes,” Ted said, and Tartan agreed. No man escaped captivity by the Goddess when she put her mind to it.

  “We will report tomorrow,” Tara said. Then she and Tartan returned to their own bodies, and Isis joined Tara in Mundania. Both women used Tara’s mouth to speak, and Tartan had no trouble telling them apart.

  “That way,” Isis said, pointing.

  “How far?” Tartan asked.

  “A day’s walk. I’ll have to fly.”

  “Now wait,” Tara said. “You’ll need a Mundane host.”

  “So I will,” Isis agreed. “That complicates things.”

  “We’ll go together,” Tara said. “And locate a suitable host.”

  “Maybe easier said than done, on short notice,” Tartan said.

  “Maybe not,” Tara said. “Let me get on the Outernet. Goggle or Binge should help.” She went to her computer.

  “What manner of thing is this?” Isis asked him with Tara’s mouth.

  Tartan laughed. “I guess they didn’t have computers or the Outernet in your day four thousand years ago. It’s a way to tap into a global network. You can find out just about anything, in minutes or seconds.”

  “I thought magic did not exist in Mundania.”

  “We call it science.”

  “Here we are,” Tara said. “Runaway eighteen-year-old girl in this neighborhood looking for a place to stay. She says she’ll suicide rather than return to her abusive home, and she’s not fooling. She doesn’t trust the authorities, who have let her down before. She wants to disappear from the records. A pimp is closing in. We’d better intercept her now.”

  “This is truly magic,” Isis said.

  They bustled out of the apartment and got into Tara’s car. She drove to the address where the girl was going and spotted her walking beside the street. Tara slewed to a stop just in front of her, and got out. “We have a deal for you.”

  “Who are you?” the girl demanded suspiciously. She was plain and ragged and evidently tired, no beauty at her best, and this was hardly that.

  Tara took her hand. Isis crossed over.

  “Oh my god!” the girl breathed. Then almost immediately: “I mean Goddess.”

  “First we’ll get you cleaned up and dressed,” Tara said. “Meanwhile the Goddess will acquaint you with what we have in mind. You are of course free to say no; this is voluntary.”

  “She already has,” the girl said, amazed. “I believe her. I’ll take it!”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Nydia. It means a refuge. That’s what I’m seeking.”

  “By day you will be Nydia, an ordinary housewife. By night you will be Isis, a Goddess.”

  Nydia opened her mouth, paused, then nodded agreement. Tara took her to the bathroom.

  Tartan got on Tara’s computer and did a Goggle search on the name Nydia. Soon he confirmed her runaway status, and verified that she would be better off on her own, if she could make it. There was not even an active search for her.

  The girls emerged. Nydia was now clean and dressed in one of Tara’s outfits. The skirt fit more or less, but the blouse was tight, and surely the bra under it was too small. There wasn’t much to be done about it until they could launder the girl’s own clothes, or buy new ones.

  “Now we need to locate the rose,” Tara said.

  “I know the direction,” Nydia said. “Isis knows.”

  They got in Tara’s car and followed Nydia’s directions. In an hour they came to the neighborhood, and then to the house.

  “Uh, before we barge in, we need to be sure,” Tartan said.

  “The rose is there,” Nydia said. “That’s sure.”

  “Okay. Now the Ghost Writer may not want to go along at first. Isis can convince him, but Isis won’t be with you all the time, just mainly at night. So I think it is better to persuade him intellectually and practically at first, then let Isis close the deal. Okay?”

  “Okay,” Tara agreed.

  “I am largely unfamiliar with contemporary Mundania,” Isis said. “I have been in Xanth for some time. So I will trust your judgment in this respect.”

  “Nydia will know the details of the present scene,” Tartan said. “She will be your guide for that, once we forge the deal. I will do the talking, at first.”

  They got out of the car and approached the house, which was distinctly nondescript. Tartan knocked on the door.

  A dull man answered. “Whatever you’re selling, I don’t want any,” he said gruffly.

  “Oh, but you do,” Tartan said. “We’re from Xanth.”

  The man tried to slam the door shut, but Tartan’s foot blocked it open. “We’ve come for the rose,” Tartan said.

  “It’s wilting.”

  “That’s because it’s away from its owner. Let her touch it, and you’ll see the difference.”

  “Yeah? Then you’ll go away?”

  “Maybe.”

  The man let them in. There was the Yellow Rose of Friendship in a vase. It was indeed wilting.

  Nydia walked over and took it. Immediately it brightened and became vibrant. She put it in her hair
.

  “But you’re not Isis!” the man protested.

  “Not yet,” Nydia said. “You thought to bargain with it for her favors, but you won’t get to touch her until you seal the deal.” She was obviously speaking for the Goddess, whose presence animated her rose.

  “What deal?”

  “We are coming to that,” Tartan said. “Let’s introduce ourselves, sit down, and discuss terms.”

  “Terms for what?”

  “For your surrender,” Tartan snapped. “Now get with the program.”

  “What—”

  Nydia reached out and touched him with one finger. The Goddess, again. He shut up.

  They took seats in his sparely furnished living room. “I am Tartan Mundane. My companion is Tara Mundane. The third person is Nydia Mundane. Soon you will marry her, and leave Xanth alone.”

  “The hell I—” But he heeded Nydia’s threatening finger, and cut it off. It was evident that Isis could deliver more than merely joy by her touch.

  “Tell us about yourself, in relevant skeletal detail,” Tartan said.

  The man struggled with himself a moment, then went along with it. “I am Goar. My name means ‘fighter.’ I am a writer. My Uncle Hoarfrost left me enough money to live on, provided I write something every month. The stipend’s not generous, but it suffices. I would like to score big and become famous and all that, but so far all I have managed is to adapt fairy tales and spread them across the fantasy land you call Xanth. It’s good practice, and seeing how my little stories play out gives me some inspiration. Fortunately I am not hurting anyone, since nothing there is real. It’s all in my dreams. Which is why I know you folk are fakes. So what do you really want?”

  Tara was interested. “So when you force people to act out naughty skits like ‘The Princess and the Pee’ you don’t think you’re hurting anyone, because they are all creatures of your imagination with no other existence?”

  “Right. How can an imaginary princess ever be embarrassed? And how do you know about that?”

  “And when you try to coerce a Goddess into making out with you,” Nydia said, “it’s just your way of making an imaginary creature toe your line?”

  “Sure. Might as well have a little fun on the side, no? My imagination gets tricky at times, not doing exactly what I want. It’s a problem with creativity. So I follow its rules to make it behave.”

  “So you wouldn’t treat real people that way, even if you had the power to do so?” Tartan asked.

  “Of course not. What kind of a jerk do you think I am? No writer actually practices what’s in his fiction. Murder Mystery writers don’t kill people, Romance writers don’t have pretty girls in every port, Western writers don’t blast away with six-guns, Erotic writers don’t have sex twenty times a day. It’s fiction.”

  Tartan sent out a glance that reflected off Tara and finished with Nydia. This guy was not actually a bad person, merely a misinformed one. “Very well. Goar, you are wasting your talent adapting fairy tales. What you really need to do is to adapt the story of the Goddess of the Ages four thousand years ago to a modern day setting. That would be the romance of the age, making you famous, and demonstrate to the world that you are not a talentless hack.” He saw the man wince; that was scoring. “You can put in plenty of accurately detailed sex, which you will write from firsthand experience.”

  Goar laughed. “If only I could! I haven’t had a real woman since I can’t remember when, if ever. That’s why I have to go to imagination, where they abound. I just saw a dance troupe in Xanth with four spectacular girls flinging out their hair and skirts, any one of which I’d love to have in my bed. But let’s face it, that won’t happen in the real world.”

  “We’ll get to that,” Tartan said evenly. “Once you have written the story of the Goddess and gotten it published, you’ll earn a lot of money from royalties and movie tie-ins. You will no longer have to live hand to mouth on a meager stipend. You will be able to buy a mansion and staff it with attractive servants. And if you get tired of writing, you can retire and keep your fame.”

  Goar licked his lips. “Damn, you spin a nice dream. But that’s all it is.”

  “And finally you will spend your nights with the Goddess, doing your homework, as it were. Each morning you will transcribe the fifty forms of rapture she teaches you to the written page, grist for those who read your fiction for other than literary reasons.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Goar said tiredly.

  “And you will have no further interest in imaginary lands like Xanth, so you can leave them alone.”

  “In your scenario, sure. I was getting tired of Xanth anyway.”

  “Now we are ready for the deal,” Tartan said. “You will marry Nydia and take good care of her. She will keep house for you, do the grocery shopping, and the thousand dull Mundane details you won’t have time for because of the urgency of your writing. Everyone will be happy, including the imaginary folk in the imaginary land you will no longer bother with.”

  Goar eyed Nydia. “So that’s it. You want to marry off Plain Jane here. Well, I’m not interested.”

  “Oops,” Tartan said. “Did I leave out a detail? By day she is Nydia, as you see her now. No other man will try to take her from you. But by night she will manifest as the Goddess Isis, the creature any man would die for, but she will be all yours. You merely have to keep your mouth shut about that aspect. No one but you needs to know.”

  “Listen, I’m not buying that crap. So you might as well get out of here now.”

  Tartan signaled Nydia. She stood, manifesting as Isis. “Come here, Goar,” she murmured huskily.

  The man’s eyes locked on her. “What the—?”

  “You will find it worthwhile to obey me,” Isis said as she removed her blouse. Her bra, exposed, seemed about to burst. Then she inhaled. There was the snap of something stretched beyond its limit. She really had to do some clothing shopping soon, to get her own sizes, let alone the Goddess’s.

  Goar was drawn to her as to a magnet. She put her arms around him and drew him in for a kiss. Tartan could have sworn he saw little hearts fly out and melt like heated wax.

  Then the Goddess took him by the hand and led him to the bedroom. All his willpower was gone. The deal was being consummated. He was doomed, and would never regret it. Neither would Nydia, whose new life as housewife and Goddess was now secure.

  Tartan and Tara quietly departed so as not to get caught in the ellipsis. They drove back toward her apartment. “Do you really think he’ll get famous?” Tara asked.

  “He won’t care if he doesn’t. All he’ll care about is Isis. Her will will be his command. For the rest of his life.”

  “Yes, of course.” She changed the subject slightly. “That romance—you know how hot I’m about to be, the moment we get private.”

  “I love your heat.”

  “But there’s one thing that makes me nervous.”

  “Oh?”

  “The picture. The portal to Xanth. Will it still be open, now that we’ve accomplished the mission? I love you, but I hope—”

  “Me too! We’ll soon know. We can delay our ellipsis long enough to find out.”

  “Thank you.”

  They reached her apartment and entered. They looked at the portal. It seemed unchanged, but that might be deceptive.

  A shape got up and looked out from the portal. “Woof!” it mouthed.

  “Tata!” Tara cried gladly. Indeed, it was the dogfish.

  Then Amara appeared, summoned by the woof. She looked out and saw them. She smiled and gave them a thumb’s up signal. Then Isis manifested, and nodded, before fading.

  The two departed, walking along the path away from the portal, having delivered their message. The portal remained open. They could visit Xanth any time, and be with their friends there, and enjoy the magic.

  “Now it
is time for the ellipsis,” Tara said. “At least three dots.”

  “At least,” he agreed as he joined her on the bed.

  . . . . . . .

  Author’s Note

  At this writing, I have no idea what the next Xanth novel, #42, will be. I am eighty and a half years old, and the thought of tackling another 100,000-word novel is increasingly daunting. I won’t say that this is the last one, but it is beginning to occur to me that the series won’t go on forever. This one was a challenge to write; I knew the beginning and the end early on, but the middle 50,000 words or so were blank. So the title is a pun on the song “Ghost Riders in the Sky,” but that alone does not a novel make. I have described elsewhere my system for working out my narrative as I go, using a notes file parallel to my text file, and I really do use it. Time and again, I came up against a blank wall and had to struggle to get over, under, around, or through it. Maybe some day scholars will use those printed out daily notes—they are not kept electronically—to see what is really involved in writing a novel, even one filled with puns and totally unbelievable things. I will say this: It does not simply flow effortlessly from the mind; it is hard fought all the way. There are fans who think that if it is not effortless, it is bad; those fans are wa-a-ay out of touch with fantasy, let alone reality.

  This novel has less violence and more romance—and, yes, suggestive ellipses—than usual. Including lesbian romance. That will surely outrage some readers. But if I allowed myself to be totally limited by the objections of isolated perspectives, there would be little of interest left. Xanth is, and always was, an adult series, even if most of its readers are young, and adults do have some concerns beyond just eating and sleeping. For one thing, the goddess Isis, introduced in Isis Orb, is an intriguing character I knew I wanted to do more with. She is the goddess of fertility, or more bluntly, sex, so she tended to draw the novel in that direction. Leading characters do, at times, take things into their own hands, regardless of the expectations of the author.

  Sometimes, I get hung up not remembering something in a prior novel. If there is any trifling detail wrong, a reader will catch me up on it, so I try my best to get it right. This time it was Prince Dolin: I had a bit of information on him, but not enough. I knew there was more, but I didn’t want to have to read through one or two prior novels just to get that. So I appealed in my monthly www.HiPiers.com column, and two readers came through for me. Thomas Pfarrer and Scott M Ryan called out the exact paragraphs, and so I was able to establish what little was known about him. Since he is a main character here, that was vital. Thank you, Thomas and Scott; I don’t know what I would have done without you. Which, of course, illustrates another truth: where I get my fantastic ideas. From my readers, as you will see in the credits section.