‘Of course I can say peep!’
‘Point made.’
‘Well, if you’re so demonly, how do you propose to get us across this sweet mess?’
Mentia considered. ‘The mountain is sweet, but the moat isn’t. It likes to kick donkey.’
‘So it boots rear. That’s its nature. Tell me something I don’t already know.’ Metria rubbed her booted rear; if she weren’t a demoness, that would really be smarting along about now.
‘Maybe if we made it sweet, it wouldn’t have so much of a kick.’
‘Make it sweet? But how—’ Then Metria saw the point. ‘Let’s get busy.’
She formed her hands into scoops and began scooping loose sugar down the slope. Soon she managed to start an avalanche. Sugar slid grandly down and plunged into the moat.
After she had scooped as much of the mountain into the water as she could, she found that she was able to descend without sliding. She had taken the edge off the slope. She went down and stood at the bank of the moat, which now looked somewhat soggy. She poked a finger into it, and tested a drop of soggy water on her tongue. There was only a little bit of tingle. Sure enough, she had pretty much denatured its kick.
However, the moat was now a mass of sickly sweet muck. The mere touch of her feet in it was enough to make her feel somewhat sick, as if she had overeaten or overimbibed. Since demons neither ate nor drank, she knew this was more magic. She would be very uncomfortable if she waded through all that, even if she didn’t get her rear booted out.
So she walked around the edge until she came to the drawbridge, which was in the down position. She had not been able to reach it before because the steep slope had dumped her where it chose to in the moat, but now it could not stop her from reaching it. She had surmounted the first challenge.
‘This becomes dull,’ Mentia said. ‘I’m going to take a nap. You handle the next challenge, and I’ll handle the third, okay?’
‘Okay,’ Metria agreed. She wasn’t concerned about her worser self, as long as she knew where Mentia was.
She set foot on the planks of the moat—and something buzzed up before her, barring the way. It seemed to be two dots, like an incomplete ellipsis, except that they were up and down instead of across. “What in tintinnabulation are you?” she demanded.
“I don’t understand: What in what?” the dot formation asked.
“Bells, ringing, music, jangle, discordance, melody—”
“Try again: None of those words make sense,” the dots said angrily.
“Damnation, hell, abyss, underworld, hades, inferno, perdition—”
“Let me guess: Tarnation?”
“Whatever,” she said crossly.
“You think you’re cross?” the dots demanded. “You’re positively sweet, compared to me: I’m as angry as anything gets.”
She peered at the dots. “Just exactly what are you, BB brain?”
“I’m an angry punctuation mark: an irritated colon,” the dots said. “And I am going to make you pause before you continue.”
“How long a pause?”
“Just this: As long a pause as it takes.”
“As it takes to what? To refresh?”
“I thought you’d never ask: As it takes to make you give up and go away.”
“I get it! You’re another challenge.”
“Too much of a challenge for you: Give it up.”
Metria tried to walk around the nasty colon, but it moved over to shove her into the moat. She tried to jump over it, still being unable to fly, but it sailed up to intercept her, its dots glowing fiercely. She tried to crawl under it, but it dropped down and made a pooping sound that warned her back. There was just no telling what it might do. She tried to push straight through it, but it got positively spastic and she had to desist.
“How am I supposed to get past you?” she demanded, annoyed.
“Either go away or bring me some relief: Those are your options.”
“Relief?” she asked blankly.
“From my syndrome: I am not irritable by choice, you know.”
“But how can I bring you relief?”
“This is for you to figure out: Cogitate, you infernal creature.”
“Do what?”
“Think, ponder, consider, contemplate, reflect: Work it out yourself, Demoness.”
Metria thought, pondered, considered, contemplated, reflected, and cogitated, though that last made her a bit queasy. But it baffled her. “It’s an edema to me,” she confessed.
“Speak plainly, demoness: A what?”
“Puzzle, maze, riddle, conundrum, mystery, paradox, poser, problem, confusion, obscurity—”
“It didn’t sound like any of those things to me: Try again.”
“What did it sound like to you?”
“Enemy, energy, eczema, enervate, Edam: enough of this nonsense.”
“Enema?” she inquired sweetly.
“Whatever: It hardly matters.” Then the colon did a double take, its dots vibrating. “Enema: Maybe that’s the answer!” It flew off to a private place to seek relief.
Metria quickly marched across the bridge. She had conquered the second challenge.
‘Your turn, Worser,’ she told her worser half.
‘Good thing you couldn’t think of the word “enigma.” Sweet dreams, Better.’
‘Demons don’t dream.’
‘I was being facetious.’
‘Being what?’
‘Humorous, droll, amusing, comical, funny—’
‘I was being funny too, idiot!’ Metria snapped, and retired from the scene.
Mentia stepped off the bridge and came to a pile of blocks. “What are you?”
“We thought you’d never ask,” they replied. “We are building blocks.” They moved, clomping along to form a square around her. Then more blocks climbed on top of the first ones, and others climbed on top of those.
“What are you doing?” Mentia asked, bemused by this activity.
“We are building blocks, of course. We are building a building for you.”
“But I don’t want a building. I’m just passing through.”
“That’s what you think!” the blocks chorused as they reached a level above her head, then started crossing the top, forming a dome.
“Hey, wait a minute!” she protested.
“Construction waits for nobody, blockhead!”
“Who are you calling that?” she demanded indignantly. “I’m an airhead, not a blockhead.” Her head fuzzed into vapor.
But the blocks were silent. They had shut her in.
She realized, belatedly, that this was the third challenge. First the boot rear moat, then the irritable colon, now the building blocks. She had to get out of this sudden chamber.
She pushed at the wall, but it was firm; the blocks had locked into place. She checked the ground, but it was hard rock. Ordinarily nothing like this could inhibit any demon, but the ambient spell around the castle made her resemble an (ugh!) mortal. She discovered that she did not have a lot of experience handling purely physical things. But her memory of being sane and sensible in the Region of Madness the year before gave her the assurance that she could adjust to this problem, too.
She explored all around the chamber. Dim rays of light filtered in through the crevices between blocks, so that it wasn’t completely dark. She tried to squeeze through a crevice, but she lacked even this power now. It was most frustrating.
‘I wonder what Gary Gargoyle would have done?’ she asked herself. ‘He was a massive powerful stone creature who was transformed to a weak fleshly man for his adventure, so he had a real problem.’
‘Will you be quiet while I’m trying to rest?’ Metria demanded crossly.
Mentia thought, pondered, considered, contemplated, reflected, and cogitated as Metria had, and finally came up with a feeble notion: Maybe she needed to think differently. She knew there was always a way to handle the challenges, and usually it required ingenuity rather than strength
. So she should use her mind rather than her body.
But that was what she had been trying to do, without getting far. What use was it to think endlessly, if the only notion it produced was to think some more?
‘Not more, differently,’ she reminded herself.
She considered the chamber again. She had pushed at one block and it was firm—but maybe there were others that were loose. She might push one out and crawl through the hole.
She put her hands on one block near the bottom. It was firm. She tried another. It was firmer. “Poop on you!” she said, berating it, but the block wasn’t fazed.
She continued to check, but all the lower blocks were firm. This evidently wasn’t the answer. She remained completely sealed in.
She sat down, leaned against the wall, and gazed at the dust motes dancing in the thin beams of light. The motes seemed to have a current, moving across the chamber. Where were they going? She focused closely, forming a very large and powerful eyeball, and traced their progress beyond the rays of light. But her effort was wasted; they didn’t go anywhere. They just brushed up against the wall and slowly settled down toward the floor.
Then she had a brighter notion. The question wasn’t where the motes were going, but where they were coming from! What was making that gentle draft? She traced that way, and discovered that the air was coming from one of the blocks in the ceiling dome. How could that be?
She put her hand up to that block—and her fingers passed right through it without resistance. It was illusion! She had given up too soon; had she pushed against every single block, she would have discovered that. This was the way out.
She put both hands up into the hole, then hauled herself up. In a moment her head was outside the building. She scrambled and got out, then rolled head under heels to the ground. She had navigated the third challenge!
“Why hello, D. Mentia,” a voice said.
Startled, Mentia got to her feet. There stood a rather nice young woman. “Do I know you?”
“I think so. You brought Gary Gargoyle here last year. I’m Wira, Humfrey’s daughter-in-law.”
“But I never came up to the castle,” Mentia protested. “How could you have seen me?”
Wira laughed. “Not with my eyes, of course. But Gary spoke well of you.”
Mentia felt that she was getting in over her depth. ‘Metria! Wake up. We’re in the castle.’
Metria joined her. ‘Just like old newspapers,’ she remarked, looking around.
‘Like old whats?’
‘Ages, eons, epochs, eras, centuries—’
‘Times?’
‘Whatever. It has been nigh ninety years since I managed to sneak in here.’
“Hello, D. Metria,” Wira said.
Both of them jumped. “How did you know me?” Metria demanded.
“Father Humfrey said you would be arriving with your other self. Now I will show you into the castle.”
‘That girl’s eerie,’ Mentia muttered.
‘She must have developed other senses,’ Metria agreed.
“True,” Wira agreed.
The two selves ceased their dialogue and followed the girl into the castle. There they were met by a woman of indeterminate age. “Mother MareAnn, here is the Demoness Metria and Mentia,” Wira said.
‘Mother MareAnn?’ one of them asked silently.
“I am Humfrey’s fifth and a half wife,” the woman explained. “I am taking my turn with him this month. I was his first love and last wife, because of a complicated story that wouldn’t interest you. My husband will see you now. Wira will take you up to his study.”
Maybe a half wife was like a half soul: enough to do the whole job.
“This way, please,” Wira said, showing the way. She moved up a narrow winding stair without faltering; obviously she knew the premises well.
The study was a gloomy little chamber crowded with books and vials. ‘This hasn’t changed a bit in ninety years,’ Metria remarked.
“Of course it hasn’t, Demoness,” Humfrey grumped from within. “Neither have you, except for that split personality you recently developed.”
“Nice to meet you, too, again, Magician,” Metria said. “You don’t look much more than a day older, either.” Of course, she knew he had elixir from the Fountain of Youth, which he imbibed to keep himself about a century old.
“Enough of this politeness. Ask your Question.”
“How can I get the stork to take my summons seriously?”
“That will be apparent after you complete your Service. Go to the Simurgh.”
“Go where?”
“Your mind may be addled, Demoness, but not your hearing. Begone.”
“Now, just a urine-picking instant, Magician! You can’t just—”
“Please, don’t argue with him,” Wira whispered. “That only aggravates—”
“Pea,” Humfrey said.
“I certainly will not!” Metria declared. “Demonesses don’t have to, and even if I did, I wouldn’t—”
“As in vegetable,” Wira said. “Pea-picking. Now, please—”
“But he hasn’t Answered me!” Metria protested. “And no one can fly to the Simurgh, not even a demoness. I demand a proper Answer!”
“After the service,” Humfrey muttered, turning a page of his giant tome.
Mentia made a sudden internal lunge and took over the body. “Yes, of course,” she said, and followed Wira out of the study.
“You’re so much more sensible, Mentia, even if you don’t have half a soul,” Wira remarked.
“I am more sensible because I don’t have half a soul,” Mentia replied. “My better half is befuddled by love and decency. I am practical, especially in crazy situations like this. We’ll just have to walk to Mount Parnassus and see what the big bird wants.”
“But she isn’t there,” MareAnn said, overhearing them as they reached the foot of the stairway. “That’s just her summer retreat, when the Tree of Seeds is fruiting.”
“But then we don’t know where to find her.”
“Ah, but I can summon an equine who knows the way.”
“That’s her talent,” Wira explained. “She summons anything related to horses, except for unicorns.”
“Why not unicorns?” Mentia asked.
“She once could summon them too, but when she went to Hell and married Humfrey she lost her innocence.” Wira blushed, for it was indelicate to refer openly to matters shrouded by the Adult Conspiracy. There might be a child in the vicinity. “Now they ignore her. It’s very sad.”
Mentia had little sympathy. “My better half never cared about innocence until she got half-souled. She can’t get near a unicorn either. So summon a horse who knows the way.”
MareAnn led the way out of the castle and across the moat, which now looked quite ordinary. She stood at the edge of an ordinary field that was where the sugar mountain had been. Already a group of things were galloping across the plain.
Mentia stared. There were four creatures, each with only one leg. Two had narrow heads, and two had thin tails. Their single hoofs thudded into the dirt in irregular order, clop-clop, clop-clop, stirring up clouds of dust behind. “What are those?”
“Quarter horses, of course,” MareAnn said. Then, to the horses: “Whoa!”
The four clopped to a halt before her. Each quarter had a silver disk on the side, with ribbed edges. On the front two disks, heads were inscribed; on the rear two, big birds with half-spread wings.
“Fall in,” MareAnn said.
The four creatures fell together, and suddenly were revealed as the four quarters of a regular horse, now complete. Wira stepped up to pet him, and he nuzzled her hand until she produced a lump of sugar. “Too bad you can’t ride Eight Bits,” Wira remarked.
“That’s his name?” Mentia asked. She was a little crazy herself, but this was more than a little crazy. “Why not?”
“Because he doesn’t trust strange adults. He just falls apart and scatters to the wind’s four qu
arters. But he does know the way, so you can follow him.”
“Maybe he should just tell us where to go, and we’ll go there ourselves,” Mentia said.
“No, he can’t speak,” MareAnn said. “He can understand simple directions, but that’s the limit. Anything more puts a strain on him, and—”
“He falls apart,” Mentia finished, resigned to a tedious journey.
But Metria pushed to the surface. “No, there’s a better way. How does Eight Bits feel about children?”
“Oh, he likes children,” MareAnn said. “Especially if they are a quarter the size of adults. But—”
Metria dissolved into smoke, then re-formed as the cutest, sweetest waif of a child anyone ever beheld. Even Wira was surprised, realizing that something was different. “I know Mentia and Metria, but who are you?”
“I am Woe Betide,” the waif said. “I have a quarter soul—half of Metria’s—and I love horses, and I will just be so pathetically sad if I can’t ride this one that I’ll dissolve in pitiful little misery.” She wiped away a huge glistening tear with one cute sleeve.
MareAnn exchanged half a glance with Wira, because it was one way: The sightless young woman had no half to return. “Maybe so,” she agreed. She lifted the tyke to the four-quartered horse.
“Oh, goody-goody!” Woe Betide exclaimed, clapping her sweet little hands together. “Let’s go.”
But Wira wasn’t sanguine about this. “We shouldn’t send a little child on such a wild ride alone,” she said.
“I’m not really a—” the tyke began, but then one of her selves stifled her before the horse could hear the rest.
MareAnn nodded. “Perhaps we can find an adult companion for her. I think there is a demoness who also knows the way, who still owes Humfrey part of a Service.”
“A demoness!” Woe Betide exclaimed. “They aren’t trustworthy!”
Again half a glance was exchanged. “You are surely in a position to know,” MareAnn agreed. “But when performing a Service, a person is bound to do it properly. She will not be released until you are safely there.”
The child’s face made a cute grimace of resignation. “Oh, all right. Who is it?”
“Helen Back.”
“Helen Back!” the child cried. “O woe betide me! She’s the worst creature in demondom. Do you know what she does?”
Roc and a Hard Place Page 2
