"Tangle trees," she agreed. "There are many dangers in Xanth. That's one reason the visitors in the game are given Companions to guide them. I don't know everything about Xanth, but I can spot the obvious threats." She paused. "For example, there's one now. Don't touch that object." She pointed to something lying in the path ahead of them.
"That's just an old horn," Sherlock said.
“That is a stink horn," she said. "If you touch it, it will make a foul-smelling noise."
Dug laughed. "Say—that sounds like fun!" He bent to touch the horn.
"No!" Nada cried, but she was too late.
BBBRRRRRRUMMPPPOOPOOHH! It sounded like the worst imaginable odor as it blew back Dug's hair and smirched his face. He stumbled away, but it was no good; the stench had gotten on him.
“Oh, now we'll have to clean you up," she said, dismayed. “Otherwise you won't be fit to be near."
"That's for sure," Sherlock agreed, holding his nose. "She did try to warn you."
Fortunately there was a small stream not far away. They went to it—but Nada hesitated. "I don't mink that's a normal stream," she said.
"I don't care what it is, I just want to get clean," Dug said. He dipped his hand and scooped out water to splash on his face. "Uh-oh."
"You'll have to wash your clothes, too," Sherlock said. "Maybe you better just change to new ones. I see a trouser tree nearby; I'll see what else I can find."
Dug just squatted there, staring into space.
"Come on, get out of those things," Nada said briskly.
"No, I can't do that," he said. "You would see me, and I am very sensitive to that, because you are a beautiful princess I would like to know better, and I don't want to make a bad impression on you, and I would make a bad impression if I appeared naked before you, and anyway I don't know if there really is anything else to wear, so I had better stick with what I have on, and in any event I have to wait to see what Sherlock comes up with, and wasn't I a fool to touch that horn, it really stunk me up, and I wish I had listened to you, but naturally I had to just barge ahead and get in trouble, as I always do, because that's my nature, and I see the disgust on your face, and that hurts me because that's not the way I want you to see me, because I'd rather be kissing you, you lovely creature, in fact if I had my druthers I'd do more than kiss you, but in this weird land I can't even look at your panties without getting booted from the game, and that's a real pain, so I just have to keep quiet about it and try not to make a fuss, but you must really be disgusted right now, I know I sure would be if I were in your shoes, and"
“That's a stream of consciousness!" Nada cried, appalled.
"they are very pretty shoes too," he continued without interruption. "I must say, more like slippers, really, making your feet look nice, and of course your legs look nice too, and I'd really like to run my hands over—hey, why am I talking like this?” he demanded, dismayed. “I can't stop myself, I'm saying everything that's on my mind, no privacy whatever, and every time I look at you it gets really embarrassing, because"
"The water of the stream of consciousness made you have to say everything that's on your mind," she said loudly, using her own voice to drown out his voice, in an effort to prevent him from embarrassing them both any more.
"all I can think of is how luscious you are, and I don't care if you are a princess, and are several years older than me, I just want to grab you and"
"I will go fetch Sherlock!" she screamed, and fled before hearing any more. What a disaster this was!
She found Sherlock, who was returning with shirt, trousers, and shoes. "Did you get him clean?” Sherlock asked. "Or do you want me to scrub him, you being a woman?"
"That's a stream of consciousness!" she cried. "He's speaking everything on his mind!"
His eyes traveled up and down her torso. "That's bound to be trouble," he said. "Is mere an antidote?"
"I don't know! I don't know what to do!"
"Then we'll just have to gag him until we figure some-thing better out," Sherlock said. "Here, I found a scarf, too; it should do the trick."
Dug saw them coming. "I don't want to be saying all this!" he said, looking desperate. "It's just coming out. Anything that triggers a thought, out my mouth it comes! Now I'm bound to say something about race relations, because Sherlock is black, and I want to keep my mouth shut, and I can't, and I'm bound to insult somebody even though I don't want to, and what are you planning to do with that scarf? You're not going to choke me, are you? I really don't mean to be like this, I can't help it if my crowd never let me play with black children, and my friends called them ni—" He stifled himself by clapping his hands to his mouth.
"This is a gag," Sherlock said. "Let me put it on you." He did so, and Dug did not resist. He had at last been silenced.
Nada concluded that Sherlock knew what to do. "I will go look for a campsite," she said, and walked away.
She was in luck. There was an enchanted campsite in a different place from the prior one. They would be able to spend a safe night. She set about garnering fruit and pies for supper, and canvas for a tent.
After a while the two men joined her. Dug was clean, in the new clothing, and still gagged. He looked grateful rather than miserable. Sherlock, instead of being a burden to have along, had turned out to be a great help.
What a disaster it would have been had she been the one to touch that stream of consciousness! She would have blabbed out her False Companion nature. She hoped the effect did not last long with Dug; this job was difficult enough without that.
Sherlock looked around. "I don't remember this place, and I've been through here. I'm sure it was just plain old forest before.”
"It must have been set up for the game," Nada explained. “The game is superimposed on Xanth, and interacts with Xanth, but we don't want to bother too many regular Xanth folk who know nothing about it"
"But your path led you right to our village," he pointed out
"Either you are game folk, or the demons decided you were a legitimate challenge," she said.
"Maybe it doesn't matter. Just so long as we find a good place to settle. We don't want to remain where we are, but we don't want to walk into trouble either.”
"If you are the Black Wave, you will find a place to settle. Every other Wave has. Maybe Dug's challenge here is to help you find that place. From what he says, I gather that some Mundanes would not even try to help you."
"That's for sure!" He hesitated. "If this is where we spend the night — separate tents?"
"If you prefer. I change into my natural form to sleep. If you don't mind being in the company of a human-headed serpent, it would be easier to set up just one tent”
"For sure. If Dug doesn't mind,"
Dug gagged, shook his head no. He didn't mind.
"Then let's see what we have here." Sherlock opened his pack and brought out a coil of wire. "We can tie this between two trees, to support the canvas. And I have metal tent pegs too; they hold better than the scrounged ones, usually.”
"You have metal things?" she asked, surprised. "How did you get them?"
"Smith makes them. Anything we need, from swords to plowshares. He really knows how to work metal."
"He has magic? He can change the form of metal? Usually, those from Mundania lack magic."
“No magic. He's trained, is all."
Dug laughed through his gag. They looked at him, so he pulled it down. "Black Smith!" he said. "It does make sense." Then he pulled the gag back up before he could say too much more.
Sherlock smiled. "He's a blacksmith, certainly. But what would be the point of magic, since he can do it all with fire and tongs?"
"Well, a magical blacksmith would shape oars from ores, getting an iron oar, or silver oar," she explained "Something like that. Maybe not silver, as that isn't black. It sounds as if your Mundane Black Smith is more versatile."
"Maybe so," he agreed.
They put up the tent and settled down to supper. But another problem
appeared: how was Dug to eat with the gag on?
"I wonder," Sherlock murmured. "The way things work here, maybe it would do."
"What would do?"
“I saw some humble pie growing near the river," he said, rising.
“Humble pie!" she exclaimed. "Maybe it would!"
So Sherlock fetched a humble pie, and they fed Dug a piece. In a moment Dug's endless monologue faded out He was now too humble to bore the others with all his thoughts.
“How did you ever think of that?" Nada asked, impressed.
Sherlock shrugged. "Elementary," he said. He had not eaten any humble pie.
Nevertheless, Nada was sure they were going to get along.
Chapter 8
BUBBLES
Kim had been enjoying the game. Now she was enjoying it more. She liked having the handsome merman along, being satisfied that he was not trying to marry her. For one thing, he knew this Water Wing well, so they would surely make excellent progress through it, without running afoul of whatever threats it offered. For another, he was excellent company. He was mature, clever, polite, and generally nice. What more could a girl ask?
They started at the eastern fringe of the Water Wing, and floated west in a water boat that sought and followed the various currents going their way. It was slow but comfortable. Each of them had packs with supplies, provided by the merfamily. Cyrus showed them how to fish, not for food but to attract exotic specimens to the lure. There were rainbow trout, their semicircular bands of color making the surrounding water beautiful. There were the tiny white specks of light that were starfish, and one that was too bright to look at a sunfish. A swordfish playfully feinted at the boat, and a sawfish made bulging eyes at them: it saw them.
But after a time this palled. They were on a seemingly endless expanse of water, going somewhere but not fast. Kim was getting bored; this wasn't exactly her idea of adventure.
Then she saw a glimmer in the air. It wasn't a bird, it was a bubble. A shimmering soap bubble, perhaps, just floating innocently by, the light glinting iridescently from its surface. Where had it come from? Where was it going? Who had blown this pretty little bubble? Kim didn't know, and didn't much care; it was just interesting to watch.
It was followed by another bubble, a bit larger and shinier. Then a third. In fact, there was a chain of bubbles, drifting along on a vagrant eddy of wind, passing the boat and moving on. Each was larger and brighter than the one before it, as if the bubble blower were growing and gaining experience.
Then a bubble seemed to have something in it. Kim strained to see, but could not make it out; just a reflection, maybe. Yet a peculiar one.
The next bubble was empty, but the one following that definitely had something in it. Kim peered closely, but still couldn't quite make it out. So she reached out and caught the bubble.
It popped the moment she touched it, and the object fell into her hand. It was a twisted paper clip, not readily usable. How had it gotten inside the bubble? How had the bubble managed to remain floating, with this weight inside it? This was such a curious matter. She hadn't realized that paper clips even existed, in Xanth; they were Mundane.
She tried to bend the paper clip back into shape, but it was beyond redemption. She considered dropping it into the water, but she didn't want to be a litterbug. Finally she hooked it into a buttonhole as an impromptu decoration.
Meanwhile the bubbles were still drifting by, and still getting larger. There seemed to be a loose chain of them crossing the lake, coming from who knew where and going to who knew where else. When she looked behind, she saw the diminishing line of them disappearing in smallness. When she looked ahead, she saw the line maintaining its size, but realized that was because the bubbles were still growing, so that their size balanced perspective. There must be some pretty large bubbles at the end of that line!
She peered at each passing bubble. Now a number of them definitely had objects inside them. They were all different, but there was something similar about them too. What was it?
One bubble carried a worn clothespin. Another had a chipped cup. Another had an empty bottle. And so on: a torn picture, a worn shoe, a stopped clock, a book with the cover torn off, a pair of socks with holes in the toes. Everything was in some way defective or useless. These were all throwaways! Things Mundane people no longer wanted. That explained the twisted paper clip.
She worked it out as the bubbles moved on by. This was a magic land, so it had magic problems and magic solutions. Maybe even punnishly literal, she thought with a smile: somewhere there would be a solution that was a magic solution: a drink or elixir. These bubbles were like trash bags: just put your junk in them and let it float away. A disposal network. The bubbles were probably going to a central dump, where they would pop and deposit their refuse. No fuss, no muss, no bother. Wouldn't it be nice to have something like that at home! Somehow this stuff must have strayed into Xanth, so was being conveyed away.
The bubbles continued, still growing larger. One had a broken bicycle. Another had a stuffed chair with the stuffing leaking. A kiddy car with the steering wheel gone. A large, old, worn dog. A—
Wait a minute! Kim snapped back to the dog bubble. What was a living creature doing in the trash? Because the dog was alive; it was lying there with its nose on its paws, breathing slowly and gazing out without much interest. It was nondescript, mostly shades of brown with some white around the edges. A mongrel, undistinguished.
And that was why, of course. With no special pedigree, and well beyond the fun of puppyhood, she was no longer a desirable pet. Maybe she was ill. So she had been thrown away. Kim had heard of this sort of thing. Sometimes people would just dump their pets off on country roads and drive away, hoping someone else would take care of them. Of course usually that didn't happen; instead the poor pets expired of starvation and exposure, never understanding how they got lost. That just made Kim so mad! But she had never had a pet, so maybe she didn't know how it was. Maybe she would have a different attitude, if she had had the experience of keeping in an aging or sick pet, but she doubted it.
The bubble was drifting on behind. The dog lifted its head and gazed at her. It gave its tail half a wag, then sank back into hopelessness. It knew it was doomed.
Kim reached for the bubble, but it was now too far away. And what would she do anyway, with a tired old dog? It probably had fleas. It was better just to let it go. It would soon be dead anyway. No one would care.
"No!" she cried. She stood up and then leaped for the bubble. Her hands touched the shimmering surface, and it popped, and her arms closed around the dog. But she was falling, because she had leaped from the boat. Splash! They fell together into the water.
"Help!" she cried. She could swim, but not while holding a large dog in her arms. And she was not about to let go of the dog, because she didn't know if it could swim.
Then Cyrus was there, swimming extremely efficiently with his tail. He caught her and the dog and heaved them back into the boat, where Jenny Elf helped them get untangled. "What happened?" Jenny asked, amazed. "Did you fall out of the boat?"
"No, I leaped out of the boat," Kim explained. “To catch the bubble."
"The bubble?”
"Didn't you see the line of bubbles floating by?"
Jenny shook her head. "No."
Cyrus heaved himself back into the boat, keeping his tail. "There were no bubbles," he said. "It must have been a daydream. I think I caught a glimpse of Mare Imbri. She must have brought you that nice dream."
"No bubbles?” Kim asked. "Then what about this?" She let go of the dog, who was now sitting in front of her.
"A dog!" Jenny cried. "It's been so long since I've seen one of those!"
"A bitch," Cyrus agreed. "You found her in the water?"
"What do you mean, a bitch!" Kim retorted. "She's a perfectly nice dog!" Then she remembered that this was what a female dog was called: a bitch. Just as a female horse was called a mare, and a female pig a sow.
"Oh,
I'm sure she's nice," Jenny agreed, extending her hand. But the dog shied away fearfully.
"It's all right," Kim said, stroking the dog's damp back. "Jenny's my Companion." The dog relaxed, accepting Jenny's touch.
Then Sammy Cat stepped forward. Kim was worried, but then realized that the little cat would not step into danger, and he knew how to find what he wanted. Sure enough, the two animals sniffed noses. Then Sammy walked away, satisfied. He was Jenny's cat, and Jenny had been accepted, so Sammy was accepted too.
Cyrus extended his hand, but the dog retreated from him too. She didn't growl, she just grew nervous. "She's your dog," Cyrus said. "I never heard of a daydream turning real like that, but it must have happened."
Kim looked around. There were no longer any bubbles in sight They had vanished. They couldn't all have drifted away so quickly. So maybe it had been a daydream. But the dog was real. As real as anything in this game. Had it been a challenge, to rescue the animal?
"What do you call her?" Jenny asked.
"My bubble dog? I don't know." Kim turned to the dog. She noticed that the dog's mouth was marked with black and white so that she seemed to be smiling, though it was merely a color pattern and not true emotion. "I think someone was—was throwing her away. Because she'd old. All the bubbles had old, worn, or broken things. But when I saw a living animal, I—I just couldn't let it happen."
"Perhaps you should check to be sure she is healthy," Cyrus said diplomatically. He knew that the chances were that the dog was not.
Kim seized the opportunity. "Bubble dog, let me see if there is a tag on you, or something," Kim said. There wasn't; probably such identification was unknown in Xanth. "Let me get you dry, while I'm at it" She brought out a towel and rubbed the dog's fur, at the same time checking for mange, fleas, or broken bones.
But the bubble dog turned out to be surprisingly healthy. She was solid—perhaps seventy pounds—but not fat, and her fur was so thick it was like dense carpeting. She was very quiet, not growling, whining, or barking, and did not try to get away. Her teeth were clean, and there were no signs of infestation. She was healthy, just old.
Demons Don't Dream Page 13
