The scene blurred, and Chena realized that there was no longer any mere hint of a tear in an eye, but a copious flow in both eyes. Her dear brother had known she was there, and brought her a gift, and some excellent advice, and gone his way, not even able to remain for her thanks.
She came out and checked the package. It was a fine bow, and a dozen perfect arrows, and one very sharp small knife. With these she could defend herself from most predators, and do some hunting. She lacked the muscle to kill a dragon at long range, but she could certainly score on small game at intermediate range, with an excellent weapon like this. She knew that Carlton had not acted alone; their parents must have supported it, though they would never say so. They couldn’t stop her exile, but they did love her.
She donned the harness, so that the bow and quiver of arrows lay across her human back. The bow was so long that its ends came close to the ground and well up beyond her head; she would have to stay clear of tight squeezes. But it was wonderful having it. She strapped the sheath of the knife to her human waist, where it was readily in-reach. She felt so much better, with such equipment—and because of what it told her about the true sentiment of her family.
And what of the advice? Well, it made sense to her. Go ask the Good Magician a question, and have a year to learn how to get along in the big uncivilized world of Xanth. Not only did it give her somewhere to go, it would give her a year’s leeway before she had to make a decision about the rest of her life. The Good Magician wouldn’t care that she had magic; all human beings did have magic, so they saw little or no shame in it. That was, of course, part of what made them lesser beings.
So she would do it. She set her face to the north. “Thanks, Carlton,” she said. “Thanks, family.” Then she started on her long journey.
As dusk came, something dark and snarly loomed ahead. Chena brought her bow about and nocked an arrow. The thing hesitated, then charged. It looked like a robert cat. She loosed her arrow, but the cat saw it coming and dodged to the side. The arrow caught it in the flank instead of in the heart, so wasn’t fatál. But the cat decided that this centaur filly wasn’t as helpless as she seemed, and bounded away, leaving a trail of blood, but, unfortunately, taking the arrow with it. Chena hated losing an arrow, but it was better than losing her life.
She found a reasonably safe niche by two intersecting wallflowers, and settled her rump there. Then she set her bow and three arrows on the ground before her, and lay down. If anything came in the night, it would have to come from the front, and she could put an arrow or three in it before it got close. She slept, keeping her ears attuned to anything unusual. But she was in luck; nothing came.
Sometime in the night there came not a predator, but a realization: Her brother Carlton had magic too; he could find things. That explained so much! But of course, he could not admit it. He had used it to find her, so he could give her the bow, knife, and advice, but could never demonstrate it elsewhere, lest he, too, be exiled. She would certainly keep his secret.
So it was, in the next few days as she traveled north. She encountered a small mean dragon, but two arrows dissuaded it. She regretted this, because again she lost the arrows, and they were irreplaceable. But at the same time she appreciated how very much worse it could have been, without the bow. There was all the difference in Xanth between an unarmed centaur and an armed one.
It turned out to be a long way to the Good Magician’s castle, especially since she didn’t know exactly where it was. Every so often she would inquire of some creature, and learn that she still wasn’t far enough north. So she continued, gradually and reluctantly expending her valuable arrows.
“I wish I could have at least a brief dialogue with someone friendly,” she said wearily.
Chena longed more than anything else for companionship. Her rocks couldn’t take the place of friends, and the only halfway intelligent person she met (other than brief glimpses of harpies, ogres, goblins, and other unsavory characters) was a more or less human child close to her own age. He had brassish-browning hair, gray eyes, and a brass-colored suntan.
“Hello,” she said, pausing with her hand not far from her knife, just in case, though he didn’t look dangerous. “I am Chena Centaur, age eleven. Who are you?”
“I am Brusque Brassie-Ogre,” the lad replied. “Also age eleven. My father is part ogre and my mother is all brassie. That’s why I’m so handsome.”
“You certainly are,” she agreed, realizing that by the standards of his crossbreeding, he was probably the only and therefore the handsomest of his kind. “I didn’t realize that ogres crossbred with brassies.”
“It started with my grandfather Smash Ogre,” he said proudly. “He made the acquaintance of my grandmother Blythe Brassie, and they liked each other well enough.”
“Oh, so they married.”
“No. He married a nymph named Tandy, and she married a brassie man named Brawnye.”
Chena was perplexed. “Then how—
“Smash and Tandy’s son was Esk Ogre. Brawnye and Blythe’s daughter was Bria Brassie. They married, and I’m their eldest son.”
“Oh,” Chena said, feeling uncentaurishly stupid. “Of course. So you are half brassy and—”
“And a quarter human, if you count Curse Fiend as human, and one-eighth ogre and one-eighth nymph,” he concluded. “I’m a crossbreed’s crossbreed. My talent is to make things hard and heavy, or soft and light.”
She couldn’t think of a suitable comment, so she changed the subject. “Is there a place for ex-Isled centaurs near your home?” she asked shyly.
“No, I live in the Vale of the Vole. No centaurs there I know of. My father has a centaur friend, but she doesn’t visit much anymore, now that she has a family of her own.”
“Yes, I suppose families do keep folk busy,” she said, thinking of her own lost family. “Do you know where else I might find a centaur community? Preferably one of those who have magic, or who are tolerant of those who do.”
“Oh, sure! The centaurs at Castle Roogna do magic, I think. Or maybe they’re nearer the North Village, across the G—oops, Mom’s calling me!” Indeed, there was the distant sound of a brass cymbal. “I gotta get home. Nice meeting you. ’Bye.”
“‘Bye,” she echoed as he ran off. She was delighted with the information, but sorry that she hadn’t quite learned what the North Village was beyond. Still, she could find out, by continuing north. So she did. Maybe she wouldn’t have to ask the Good Magician a Question, if she found compatible magic-talented centaurs like herself.
Several days later, Chena was still trekking through the wilderness. She had one good meal one day: She caught some lox in a salmon stream (or maybe it was light pink), and smoked them over a piece of smoky topaz. They were locked, of course, so she opened them with some of her lime-pie keys. She looked for something to eat them with, and found a bagel bush, then searched through a creamweed for some cream cheese. She found it, but not until after she’d found egg cream, buttercream, shaving cream, light cream, dark cream, cream of the crop, cream soda, whipped cream, chocolate cream, marshmallow cream, and eyes cream in various ice-cold flavors. She scooped up the latter four to make a wonderful eyes cream Mondae for dessert.
This was the last good meal she had for some time. She was now passing through an area with very few feed-bearing plants. She carefully rationed the amount of pie she could eat each night, as well as her quartz-milk and limestone juice, which she called her “rock food.” Chena was tired, hungry, lonely, and growing desperate.
Her original determination to survive and possibly even prosper, to find magic-wielding centaurs who would accept her, or to ask the Good Magician a Question and be well cared for for a year while she performed her service—all these notions faded in the face of her growing desperation. Now she appreciated just how difficult the realm of untamed Xanth could be. To make it worse, she had reluctantly expended the last of her fine arrows, in the course of discouraging passing monsters who showed too great an intere
st in her tender flesh. She was now almost defenseless. She was tempted to gobble down her last two squished pies, instead of rationing them, so that at least she wouldn’t be so hungry today, regardless what happened tomorrow.
“I’d almost rather be eaten by a monster right now and have it over with,” she whispered miserably.
Suddenly she heard an ominous rustling, and then a slavering sound, followed closely by a loud roar. “I didn’t mean it! I take it back!” she cried as a catawampus burst into view. This was an enormous feline creature, three times Chena’s size and vaguely resembling a catamount. The most frightening thing about it was that it seemed to be entirely crazy. Like its bearish black and white cousin, the pandemonium, and its sheepish cousin, the bedlamb, it brought chaos wherever it went.
Chena whipped her bow around and cocked her fist, drawing back the string. She was bluffing, because she had no arrow, but maybe the monster wouldn’t realize. But the catawampus was too demented to be bluffed. Its eyes rolled wildly in its head as it tore at the grass in front of it, cackling and snorting before it remembered it was supposed to roar. It uprooted a tree and shredded it into splinters. It fought its own tail, tearing out several hunks of fur without feeling any pain. It coughed, and spat out a fur ball. Then it extended its claws, showed its teeth in a wicked grimace, and advanced toward Chena.
She ran, as any normal person would. The monster pursued her. She stayed out of its reach for a little while, but she was too hungry and tired to keep up the pace for long. Gradually the catawampus gained on her; she could hear the closer thudding of its hugely clawed feet, and the blasting bellow of its breath.
She saw a clearing ahead. She used her last burst of speed to race for it, hoping that there would be something there to save her. But as she reached it, she shrieked with pure horror.
She was at the edge of a huge chasm. It stretched as far as her tired eye could see, to both sides, and was dreadfully deep and wide. She had to screech to an emergency stop, lest she run right into it.
The catawampus rushed toward her, cranking up its claws for pounce mode. She had a quick decision to make: Should she die by leaping into the chasm, or by letting the monster tear her apart? She decided that the chasm frightened her less. So she leaped, screaming again, as if that would do any good. “I wish something would save me!” she cried despairingly as she began her fall into the dusky depths.
Someone grabbed her hand. A tail slapped against her flank, making her feel strangely light and free. She opened her eyes, looking down, and discovered that she was suspended above the chasm, being pulled to safety. She looked back, and saw that the catawampus was growling on the brink, unable to catch her here.
She looked up—and there was a winged centaur colt of about her own age, or maybe a year younger. He was flying in place, and somehow supporting her whole body by his hold on her hand. How could this be?
“Who—how—?” she asked.
“I am Che Centaur,” he said. “I made you light so I could hold you up, but I shall have to bring you back to land soon, because the effect fades with time.”
“I am Chena Centaur,” she said. “I didn’t know that winged centaurs existed!”
“We’re a relatively new species. We call ourselves alicentaurs. Will it be all right if I set you on the far side of the Gap Chasm?”
Chena looked down again. There was a small cloud passing beneath her. It looked worried that she might drop a clod on it. Of course, she was now so light that any such clod might simply float away, but she could nevertheless appreciate the cloud’s concern. She tried not to giggle at the thought of clouds being peppered by flying centaur manure. “Yes.”
Che pumped his gorgeous wings more forcefully, and towed her across the yawning gulf of the Chasm. She wondered whether the Gap was falling asleep, and whether it would close its mouth after it yawned.
He brought her safely to the far rim. She was glad to feel her feet firmly on land again, and was sure that Che was glad too, because she had been gradually gaining back weight and he had had to work hard to keep her aloft. They paused to rest and talk. She learned that Che had been trying out his flight feathers, using the warm updrafts of the Gap Chasm, when he had abruptly spied her in trouble. He had managed to reach her just in time.
She offered him one of her squished pies, which he gravely accepted, and she ate the last one herself. She was so relieved by escaping the monster and finding a friendly centaur that she hardly cared about what she would eat tomorrow.
“We had better walk to my home,” Che said. “Actually I’m not living at home right now; I’m with Gwenny Goblin, who is camped not far from here. The goblins are doing an exercise.”
“Goblins!” Chena cried, horrified. “They captured you?”
He laughed. “That was five years ago. We’re firm friends now. I’m Gwenny’s Companion.”
This was too strange for her to assimilate. “Don’t goblins hate all other creatures? Especially beautiful or smart ones, like centaurs?”
“Yes and no. Most goblins are like that, but the goblins of Goblin Mountain are ruled by Gwenny, the first female Chief, so they are becoming halfway decent. So it’s safe for other folk to visit them. You’ll like Gwenny; she’s nice.”
Chena remained confused. “If this gobliness is their chief, why does she want a centaur around? I don’t mean any offense to you. It’s just that she must have important things to do.”
“She does have things to do. I help her. She can’t fly, of course, and she’s not as intelligent as a centaur, so I can scout for her and give her advice. It works well enough.”
Chena almost suspected that he wasn’t telling her everything, but it wouldn’t be polite to pry. “I’m sure it does,” she agreed.
They came to the goblin camp. Ugly goblin warrior men charged up at the sight of them, but Che merely held up his hand. “A visitor for the Chiefess,” he said. “Inform Moron.” So instead of attacking, the goblins fell in around them as an approximation of an honor guard, while one of them dashed off.
Chena would have been really uneasy about this if Che weren’t so plainly at ease. “Who is the moron?” she whispered.
“He’s Gwenny’s Head Honcho. Think of him as the chief of staff.”
“But you shouldn’t call him names.”
“That is his name. All the goblin males have ugly names.”
“Oh.” Perhaps that did make sense.
They stopped at a prettily decorated tent. Che assumed a serious mein as a vile-looking goblin approached. “Moron, this is Chena Centaur, here to visit the Chief.”
Moron turned to face the tent. “Chief, Chena Centaur is here to see you.”
The tent flap was pushed aside, and a pretty goblin girl emerged. She looked very young, but Chena realized that was because she was so petite. She was probably seventeen or eighteen years old. She had a mental picture of herself embarrassing them all by treating a mature Chief as a child.
The gobliness smiled. “It has happened,” she said.
Chena was astonished. Had the girl read her thoughts?
“I rescued Chena from a monster by the Gap Chasm,” Che said. “May we come in?”
“Of course,” Gwenny said.
The tent was surprisingly large inside. When the three of them were alone, Che turned to Chena. “Gwenny can see dreams,” he explained. “I thought I saw Mare Imbri pass by; she must have left you a day dream.”
“Mare Imbri?”
“You are not from these parts,” Gwenny said, smiling.
“No. I’m from Centaur Isle. But I was exiled.”
“She has a magic talent,” Che explained. “She’s looking for other centaurs like her, or perhaps she will go to the Good Magician.”
“But she will need to recover her strength first,” Gwenny said. “I can see that she has suffered privations on the way here.”
Thus began what was to be one of the most pleasant interludes of Chena’s young life. She remained for a fortnight wit
h the goblin camp, during its exercises. Che and Gwenny were usually together and often busy, but Moron saw to it that Chena was courteously treated. He introduced her to his friends Idiot, who was in charge of intelligence, and Imbecile, the goblin foreign relations officer. They seemed like ordinary goblin males, apart from their titles: ugly, stupid, and foul-spirited. Yet not bad people, as she got to know them, and no other goblin bothered her as long as one of the three was anywhere near.
Chena managed to make herself useful, by finding magic stones and invoking their properties. Some goblins were worried about getting injured in battle, so she gave them guardstones. Others feared they weren’t ugly enough, so she gave them uglystones. Some wanted to express themselves more effectively, so she gave them cursestones. These were very popular, even if they weren’t allowed to use them in the Chiefess’ presence.
Then it was time for the exercise to end. The goblins had learned to march in disciplined formations, and to sing tunes as they did. That would enable them to make a good impression when they guarded the lady Chief on an official visit to another species. Every one of them wore the same uniform and stepped to the same beat. Chena had watched their practice sessions, and had to admit that they were impressive. Such a formation would quickly abolish the notion that all goblins were undisciplined hordes. This was a disciplined horde.
But something else had been happening in this period, and now that it was time for the goblins to go home and for Chena to go her way, she realized what it was. She had been falling in love with Che Centaur. He was such a decent creature, and so handsome when he flew.
Roc and a Hard Place Page 22
