Dragon on a Pedestal (17 page)

Grundy, true to his fashion, irritated her by finding minor fault with the details. “Your stupid line-dots are covering up key features,” he said, pointing to a section of the line. “There’s a tiger lily squished under this dot!” He pointed to one of them.

“Serves it right,” Chem retorted. “It snapped at my tail as I passed it.”

Irene looked up, keeping track of the flying hippogryph. She was half afraid the beast would disappear entirely, but evidently Xavier was taking his mother’s directive seriously and was guiding them correctly. It was obvious that the gryph could have flown much higher and faster than it was doing, had it so chosen. At least those two were getting their desire: to go fly. Even if they did have to carry a zombie along.

“Hey, that’s nice,” Grundy said, reaching out to grab a small flower from a plant growing on a close bank.

“Don’t touch it!” Irene warned.

Naturally the golem touched it anyway.

“Eeeek!” the flower shrieked piercingly, wrenching itself away.

Startled, Grundy looked back at the protesting flower. “What was that?”

“I
told
you not to touch that touch-me-not,” Irene said complacently. “They are delicate plants, and don’t like to be handled by clumsy oafs.”

The golem started to say something, then thought better of it.

They continued on through a field of creature plants, generally harmless but sometimes startling. Duckweed quacked, an alligator pear ground its teeth at them—naturally it had two jaws for the purpose, an upper and a lower, making the pair—a windmill palm rotated its great blade-leaves, causing wind to gust past them, a pig lily oinked, a pussy-foot crept away on little fog-feet, fish grass swam away, several toad plants croaked with great displays of mortal agony, and a money plant waved green papery
leaves at them. Then the air was filled with the frozen petals from a giant snowflake plant; the petals settled in a maidenhair tree, much to her annoyance. She took a brush from a bottle-brush plant and brushed off the snow, then plucked a powder-puff to restore her complexion.

Chem, distracted by the novel plants, stumbled against a rock. Fortunately, it was a sham-rock, so her hoof wasn’t hurt. A real rock would have been much worse. A running myrtle, spooked by the noise, ran off. A nearby punk tree laughed, making the sound by cracking its wooden knuckles and creaking its limbs.

“Yeah?” Grundy demanded, always ready for an argument. “You ain’t so hot yourself, punk!”

A short distance away, a pencil tree was making busy notes on a paper plant. Irene smiled; apparently to these plants, the sight of a centaur, woman, and golem was worthy of note. The visitors were as strange to the plants as the plants were to the visitors. But notes weren’t really necessary, as there were several forget-me-not flowers around to remember.

Near the edge of the field, a spider lily was hot in pursuit of a butterfly flower, while silver bells rang a warning. That startled a zebra plant who was grazing on some unlucky clover. Chicken corn squawked as the zebra ran past, and a curiosity plant craned its stem to see what was going on.

They must be getting closer to the Tree of Seeds, Irene reflected, for all these unusual plants had to have sprouted from seeds scattered from an unusual source. The thought of that Tree excited her. She would try to fetch the witch’s three bad seeds, but she also hoped to garner some exotic specimens for herself. All the seeds of the wilderness would be available!

As they re-entered the deeper jungle, Grundy reached for a feather fern, surely intending some ticklish mischief with it, but a fan palm fanned it aside. The golem slapped at the palm, but it drew back, closing its fingers about itself, and all Grundy struck was a section of a neighboring crown-of-thorns. That plant dropped its thorny crown on the golem’s head. What the golem said as he wrenched the prickly crown off was not comprehensible, since it was in plant language, but a bleeding-heart vine blushed, a trumpet lily sounded a retreat, an artillery plant fired off a salute, and a never-never plant wilted.

They halted for a snack, as traveling made them hungry. Xap and Xavier came down; company might not appeal to them, but the food certainly did, and they knew they could separate from the zombie when they landed, at least for a while.

Irene grew a custard-apple plant, a honey plant, and a swiss-cheese plant for Xavier, Chem, and herself, a hot red pepper for Xap; and a genuine has-bean for Grundy.

Evening was nearing. “How much farther do we have to go?” Irene asked Xavier.

“Oh, Xap could be there in an hour,” the yellow man replied cheerfully. “But I guess you’ll need more time.”

“Yes,” Chem agreed succinctly. It was evident she was tired from the long run through such varied terrain. Wings were definitely an asset for this sort of excursion.

“So we’d better make camp,” Grundy said. “And move on to Parnassus in the morning.”

“Yes, I think that’s—” Irene started. Then she froze, absolutely horrified.

There, at the base of a barrel cactus, lay the battered body of a child. It looked like a girl, and Irene knew with a sick and awful certainty whom it had to be, for the hair had a green tint.

Her vision, when they approached Castle Zombie—had it come true?

She forced her frozen limbs to move, and ran to the body—and there was nothing. Just undisturbed forest floor.

“Whatever did you see?” Chem asked solicitously. “I saw nothing out of the ordinary.”

“It must have been—my mistake,” Irene said faintly. “I saw—Ivy. She was—she looked dead!”

“But your ivy plant remains healthy,” the centaur pointed out. “So whatever was there, it could not have been your daughter.”

“Yes, of course,” Irene agreed, touching the ivy plant. “I should have realized. But it had green hair—”

“Oh, that’s the fetch,” Xavier said. “Don’t pay that no mind, miss.”

“The what?” Irene asked dazedly.

“The fetch. It’s around our place all the time. I told you, it don’t mean nothing.”

Chem switched her tail nervously. “I’m sure that is the case, Xavier. But what exactly is the fetch? An apparition?”

“Naw. It’s when you see a live person, only you see him dead. Maw likes the fetch; it suits her sense of humor.”

“It would,” Grundy put in.

“The person you see dead—is really alive?” Irene asked, her horror abating. It was not like her to be so destabilized by such a minor event, but this vision had reinforced her prior vision, reviving a deeper horror, and that was hard to shake.

“Sure. Always,” Xavier said. “It ain’t no fun for the fetch to show a real dead person.”

“Fun!” Chem exclaimed indignantly.

“I don’t like the fetch,” Xavier confessed. “It used to be death to see it, in the old days when Xanth was new; now it’s just bad luck. Maw likes bad luck, but I don’t.”

Irene glanced sidelong at the handsome young man, liking him better despite his backwardness. “You don’t get along with your mother?”

“Oh, I get along. She tells me what to do, and I do it, so she don’t use the eye on me. But I’d rather fly.”

Irene could appreciate why. Any normal person would seek an excuse to spend time away from such a witch. “Thank you for the information about the fetch,” she told him. “It’s a great relief to me.”

“Well, you’re a pretty gal, real pretty, even if Maw does say so,” he said, as if that related.

Irene considered the ramifications of that minor comment before responding. His mother the witch had wanted to match the two of them, and both Xavier and Irene herself had resisted. So he had complimented her, despite the negative phrasing. She rather liked, at the age of twenty-eight, being called a “pretty gal.” Her days of girlhood were long past, and sometimes she missed them. She had been a showoff and a tease a dozen years ago, and though it embarrassed her to remember it, she had to admit it had been fun. So if someone saw her as that sort now, she was not really displeased. Even if he was an ignornant lout and she was a devoted wife to her distant husband and mother of a precious child. So she behaved recklessly and returned the favor. “And you’re a handsome lad.”

“Aw, don’t start on that mush stuff,” he said, disgusted.

Irene smiled privately. Xavier was truly a boy at heart! The witch must really have sheltered him from life.

Grundy chuckled, though theoretically he had not been listening.

Xavier grimaced. “Maybe I better clear up a misunderstanding,” he said. “I don’t need no help from Maw to figure out what to do with a nymph, when it comes to that. It’s just that something like marriage is too important to be done offhandedly. I aim to make my own choice of women—and when I do, it’ll be forever. Maw don’t understand that; maybe you do.”

Irene appraised him again. He made a good deal more sense than she had thought him capable of; “Yes, perfectly,” she agreed. “I wish you well.”

“And the same goes for Xap. He knows his own mind; he just hasn’t found no fem-gryph he likes yet.”

Irene didn’t comment; she was satisfied to let it stand exactly at that. It was not, after all, so bad traveling with this pair of males.

She grew a nice tree house and some cushion cactus for bedding—that kind had spines so soft they hardly even tickled—and swept out the house with some broom she sprouted for the purpose. Xavier watched her at work with open admiration. “You sure are good at that,” he exclaimed.

“I should be,” Irene murmured. “It’s my talent.” Then, to distract his interest, which she judged to be getting possibly too personal, she asked: “What is your talent, Xavier?”

“Oh, I zap things,” he said nonchalantly. “It ain’t nothing much.”

“Xap? Your hippogryph?”

“Not Xap. Zap. With a Z-snore sound.”

Irene couldn’t distinguish the distinction of pronunciation but concluded that one was the animal, the other an action. “You zap things,” she repeated.

“I don’t ever do it to friends,” he clarified. “I don’t like hurting folks. But when I’m hunting or something, or if a monster comes after me—” He shrugged.

That sounded like a weapon. Irene’s interest increased. They were deep in unexplored Xanth, and monsters could appear at any time. Xavier had evidently traveled through this region and had no fear of it, so his zapping must be effective. Of course, the hippogryph represented considerable protection for him, so maybe his talent didn’t matter. “Could you demonstrate?”

“I guess so.” He looked about. “See that cobra plant getting ready to strike the filly’s leg?”

Irene looked, startled. Sure enough, the plant was rearing its flattened stem, with two thorn-fangs glistening from its flower. When a cobra plant spread such a cape, the prudent person vacated the region quickly. But Chem was in dialogue with Xap, Grundy translating. Chem wanted to determine a good mappable route to Parnassus, so that the mountain would no longer be unattainable. She did not see the dangerous plant, and Irene was afraid to call out to her for fear that would trigger the strike. It was a delicate situation. “I see it,” she murmured.

Xavier pointed his right forefinger. Something shot out from it at about the speed of light, possibly a little faster, and zapped right through the lifted cobra head. The plant hissed and expired, bleeding poisonous sap.

“Why—” Irene said, astonished. “You can kill with that!”

“Oh, sure. Anything, any time. But I don’t like to hurt creatures. I mean, they got feelings and things, same as I do. So I just go fly with Xap and I zap at the clouds. It don’t hurt them none, you see, and it sharpens my aim. That’s fun. ’Course, there’s this one cloud, King Fracto, who don’t like it; he zaps back with lightning jags. Xap lost some tail feathers once—well, he don’t have tail feathers, but same place. Fracto’s always looking for a fight.”

“I think I’ve met him,” Irene said, remembering the cloud she had encountered on the way to the Good Magician’s castle. “He has a bad attitude.”

“I don’t mind zapping Fracto. But I wouldn’t zap a bird.”

Or a person
, she trusted. “That’s very good, Xavier,” she said carefully. “Certainly you don’t want to hurt any friendly creatures.”

He looked at her more squarely. “Gee, you sure
are
pretty, miss. You got a shape on you like a nymph.”

And he had told her he knew what to do with a nymph. It seemed that, though he resisted his mother’s influence and was determined to make up his own mind, that mind had not yet excluded Irene from consideration. She could not afford to have his interest fix on her in that manner. Even if he were more innocent than he claimed, it was a fact that innocent youths did not necessarily remain so indefinitely. “I’m an old married woman, looking for her child,” she said quickly.

“Oh, sure, you’ll get the kid back safe,” he agreed encouragingly. “Too bad Maw caught you, the way she does everyone, or you’d probably have found the tot by now.”

Very likely true, Irene reflected ruefully. The distractions of this quest to Parnassus had blunted her concern somewhat, for immediacies always came first, but she knew she could never really rest until Ivy was safe again.

What she had learned about Xavier was important, too. Before this conversation, it had not occurred to her that this backwoods hick could be dangerous. He was a powerful man, his talent was deadly, and his steed was one of the most formidable creatures of Xanth. If he had shared his mother’s temperament, or if for any reason he turned against Irene—

She had a fine line to walk. She could not afford to have Xavier become either too friendly or too unfriendly. It would be best if he and Xap flew elsewhere, as soon as Parnassus was reached.

Chem turned about and came over, carrying Grundy. “Xap says there is some bad terrain between us and Parnassus,” she said. “He can fly over it, but I can not, so I’ve got to scout it out. Then I’ll be able to thread my way through it safely. He says there’s a knoll not far distant from which we can see the mountain, a good place from which to map the intervening terrain. If we go immediately, we can reach the knoll before dark. So if you don’t mind, Irene—”

“You want us all to go?” Irene asked, dismayed. “I can’t finish growing the tree house after dark—”