Dragon on a Pedestal (40 page)

Hugo glanced back, too. “Good thing we didn’t try to fly,” he remarked.

“Why?”

“Because now I see that a number of wiggles do, after all, travel upward,” he said. “The holes do not form a perfectly horizontal plane; most holes are in a level line, but some are above and below. Some wiggles are angling upward or downward, and probably a few go straight up. If Stanley had tried to fly over the nest, he would probably have been holed so many times before he reached it that he never would have made it.”

“Oooh, awful!” Ivy agreed with a shudder.

Zzapp! Zzapp! Zzapp!
Now she was even more conscious of the concentration of wiggles. They were everywhere except right here, and the landscape of Xanth was devastated by their passage. She could see dead animals and birds, holed by wiggles. Even the ground was chewed up by frequent holing. The wilderness was becoming a wasteland.

But now at last the nest itself was in sight. It was a dark globe as tall as a grown man, perched on the ground beyond a ravine. There was a haze around it, which Ivy realized was actually the mass of wiggles hovering in the region, before zapping on outward. Most of them did hang in a plane parallel to the ground, making the nest resemble the planet Saturn—but of course this was much larger than Saturn, which as everyone knew was only a tiny mote in the night sky that never dared show itself by day.

Overall, the thing was awesome and horrible. How unfortunate no one had seen it while it was growing and destroyed it before the swarming started! But this was in the deepest depths of Unknown Xanth, where no one who was anyone ever went. So the nest had grown and grown, unmolested, perhaps over the course of thirty years. Now Xanth was paying for it!

It had taken time to skirt the hill and guide the forget-whorl this far. They were tired, for all three of them were children, and the day was fading. Still, there should be time to reach the nest, except—

“Hold up!” Hugo cried. “We can’t go there!”

Ivy saw what he meant. The ravine was no minor cleft; it was an abrupt, deep fissure in the earth, extending down into darkness. It was too broad for any of them to jump across and too deep to climb through. To the sides
it leveled out somewhat, at the near edge; but the far edge remained an almost vertical cleft as far as they could see. They could certainly roll the whorl into this ravine—but if it sank to the bottom, they could never get it out again.

They halted, afraid to go farther, lest the whorl fall in. “What are we to do now?” Ivy asked dispiritedly. She was a creature of optimism and she believed in her friends, but the blank far wall of the ravine was a mighty pessimistic thing.

“Let me think,” Hugo said.

While Hugo thought, Ivy’s tired attention wandered. She wished she were home at Castle Roogna, watching the historical tapestry with its perpetually changing pictures. She could almost picture herself there, happily absorbing the yarns of the tapestry.

Suddenly she spotted a faint horse-outline. She recognized it. “The day mare!” she exclaimed. “I see you, Mare Imbri! You’re such a pretty black, just like a shadow!”

And, as tended to happen in Ivy’s presence, the object of her attention became more so. Imbri the Day Mare, who had brought Ivy’s daydream, became clearer and blacker and prettier. She was now more perceptible than she had been.

“Hey, she can take a message to our folks!” Hugo said, his intelligence still operating. “We need advice about what to do now.”

But the mare shook her head sadly, her shadow-mane flaring. She projected her thought into a dream figure of a nymph, and Ivy heard the nymph’s voice faintly in her head, like a distant memory. “Night is nigh, and I can no longer carry dreams by night. I can not carry messages from one person to another; I can only bring thoughts
of
each other. I will have time only to hint to your folks where you are.” And Imbri was off, racing against the suddenly looming night.

Ivy shook her head. They were still stuck! They wouldn’t be able to see the flying cherries in the dark, and so the whorl would drift away, and then the wiggles would come through—

What were they to do? Their gallant effort was about to collapse into disaster. They didn’t even have time to retreat or any way to bring the protective whorl with them if they did withdraw.

T
hey found the Cyclops’ cave in late afternoon. The monster was asleep inside, with the bones of a recent carcass piled in the entrance. Irene would have felt dread for the fate of her daughter, but the ivy plant she carried still grew in health. Ivy remained well—somewhere.

“Be ready,” Irene warned Chem. “I’m going to broach the monster.”

The centaur nocked an arrow to her bow and stood ready.

Irene approached the cave. “Cyclops!” she called.

The creature stirred. “Ungh?” he inquired through a yawn. “Who calls Brontes?”

So the thing could speak the human language. Good. “Where is my daughter?” Irene demanded.

The Cyclops sat up. His big blue eye gazed out into the light. He saw Chem’s arrow aimed at that eye. He blinked. “Daughter?”

“Ivy. She was with a little dragon.”

The Cyclops brightened. “Sure, her, and the dragon, and the boy. Nice visit, good fruit. Friends.”

“All three are safe?”

“Sure. Nice children. We talk, tell stories. But they not stay.”

“Where are they now?” Irene asked evenly, for her trust in monsters was small.

“They go home,” the Cyclops said. “That way.” He pointed northeast.

“But that’s through the deepest depths of the unknown!” Irene protested. And, she added to herself, it was not the direction of the mouth organ where the children had interacted with the goblin band. Was Brontes deceiving her?

“Yes. Nice kids. I say I carry them at night, but they not wait. In hurry go home.”

“They were all right when they left here?” Irene asked, still uncertain. This misalignment of direction bothered her. Once again, compulsively, she glanced down at her ivy plant. Of course the children were all right!

“They not wait for night. I not go out by day. The Sky—”

Chem lowered the bow. “I don’t think he’s deceiving us,” she said. “He wouldn’t be in a position to know about the goblins. The children must have changed direction when they encountered Glory.”

Irene agreed. The Cyclops’ story did, after all, align. “What about the sky?”

“My father the Sky—he strike me down, if—”

“Your father is in the sky?” Chem asked, approaching. “Is this a euphemism for—”

“He banish me, will strike down—”

“So you said,” Chem cut in. “So your father
is
the sky, and he’s angry with you. How long ago did you offend him?”

The Cyclops was at a loss. He started counting on his huge fingers.

“That many years ago?” Irene asked.

“Centuries,” the Cyclops said, starting on his other hand.

“Centuries!” Chem exclaimed. “Your kind must live a long time!”

Brontes shrugged. “Sip of Youth water now and then; spring not far, for me. But not live long if I go out in sight of Sky!”

It was amazing how widespread knowledge of the Fountain of Youth was among the creatures of Xanth—while civilized people had remained ignorant. Yet this creature seemed unnecessarily restricted by his fear of the sky. “Have you ever tested it, this—this continuing animosity?”

“Not dare go out by day!”

“Look,” Irene said impatiently. “There is a terrible hazard facing Xanth at the moment, and we need all the help we can get. Have you heard of the wiggles?”

“The wiggles!” Brontes exclaimed. “Many times, since time began! Very bad!”

“They’re swarming again. If you don’t come out and help us stop them, they may riddle this cave by nightfall. They’re harder to fight at night, because you can’t see them as well. So you may have to choose which chance to take—sky or wiggle.”

“Must warn brothers!” Brontes cried. “Steropes and Arges are also at risk! Only found them last night!”

Irene wondered why the Cyclops hadn’t found his brothers before, perhaps when the last wiggle swarm had passed this way. But probably they had been fighting different sections of the swarm, then retreated to their caves by day the way Brontes did. These semihuman creatures had funny values. “Do that,” she said. “But first you must come out of that cave.”

“But the Sky—”

“Forget the sky!” Irene snapped. “Come out here and see what happens. If you don’t get struck down, you’ll know it’s safe. It’s been a long time, after all.”

The monster’s big eye brightened. “True. Long time.” He put a foot out of the cave, then hesitated as if thinking of something else. “But if Sky do strike—”

“Then you won’t have to worry about the wiggles.”

Overcome by this logic, though it seemed he reserved some small doubts, the Cyclops stepped out of his cave, cowering against the light, afraid a thunderbolt would strike him down. But as the sunlight fell on him, nothing else did.

“Evidently the sky has forgotten you,” Chem said.

Brontes peered up, shading his eyes with a hand, amazed and relieved. “Long time,” he repeated. “Oh, now I free my brothers, too! All fight wiggles!” He glanced about. “Not see as well as when Ivy-girl help. Where are wiggles?”

“Roughly east-northeast of here, we think,” Chem answered. “We skirted the fringe of the swarm, and haven’t pinpointed it yet. But it’s not very far away—and getting closer all the time!”

“The kids!” he said. “Going right into it!” Then he charged off to the west, in quest of his brothers.

“He’s right,” Irene said with new alarm. “The children must be very near that swarm! Let’s hurry!”

They hurried. Irene wished Grundy were still with them, for now the trail was fresh and the local plants would be able to confirm the route. But she could not wait for the golem to reappear. The threat of the wiggles made haste imperative.

As she rode, Irene began to daydream. This was unusual for her, as she was a practical woman; she had to make sure Dor didn’t innocently foul up the kingdom. But now, at this time of the double tension of peril to her child and to all of Xanth, she found herself dreaming. She must be more tired than she thought.

She remembered how she had participated in the defense of Xanth from the last great threat, that of the Mundane Nextwave—which was, of course, now the Lastwave, but old thought and speech habits died slowly—and had herself been King for a while, since Xanth did not have ruling Queens. The final key to victory had been Imbri the Night Mare, now honored by a commemorative statue, who had given her physical life in the cause and now was a spirit of the day, a day mare, bringing—”

“Mare Imbrium!” Irene exclaimed abruptly. “It’s you!”

And, of course, it was. Now she could see the faint shadow-outline of her friend, running beside Chem.

“I thought you knew,” Chem said. “Imbri joined us several minutes ago.”

“I’m not as alert to her as you are,” Irene said, disgruntled. “You share your soul with her.”

“True,” Chem agreed. “But it is you she has the message for, except that she doesn’t want to call it that.”

“Well, let’s have it!” Irene cried. “By whatever name!”

Now she was fully alert, and the day mare couldn’t communicate with her directly. Chem had to translate, for the centaur’s soul-affinity gave her a special understanding.

“Imbri says Hugo and Ivy and Stanley are safe, but—”

“Stanley?”

“Remember, Glory and Hardy told us. The rejuvenated Gap Dragon. They are safe, but need help. They’re going after the wiggle nest directly.” “That’s impossible!” Irene protested. “No one can approach a wiggle nest!”

“So we thought,” Chem agreed. “But Imbri says they are using a forget-whorl as a shield, and plan to use the whorl to wipe out the nest. We must promise not to reveal that she told us this, because she’s not supposed to—”

“I promise!” Irene exclaimed. “But how—a forget-whorl—”

“I believe that could be effective,” Chem said. “If the whorl does to the wiggles what it does to most creatures, they will forget how to zap, and cease to be a danger to the rest of Xanth. I suspect this is a stroke of genius, though how they ever thought of it—”

“No one can even
see
a whorl!” Irene protested.

“It is amazing,” Chem agreed. “Imbri says Hugo is locating the whorl by using flying fruit—”

“But all Hugo’s fruit is rotten!”

“Not any more. Not according to Glory Goblin or Brontes the Cyclops. Imbri merely confirms that Hugo has perfected his talent, and is now a good deal smarter and handsomer than before. A woman has to be responsible.”

“Or a little girl,” Irene agreed. “I keep forgetting how much power Ivy seems to be manifesting.”

“And the little dragon is fanning the whorl forward with his wings—”

“But the Gap Dragon’s wings are vestigial! They’re hardly noticeable! They can’t—”

“They seem to have grown. I suspect your daughter has something to do with that, too.”

The rest of the light dawned. “Only the talent of a Sorceress could account for all the changes we have noted!”

“A Sorceress,” Chem agreed. “She was perhaps too close to you, so you didn’t realize. Ivy will one day be King of Xanth.”

“When my generation passes,” Irene murmured, awed by the vision of it. This was more than she had hoped for!

Then common sense prevailed. “Three children can’t take a risk like that!” Irene said. “We can’t allow it! Those wiggles are the most deadly menace in Xanth! We’ve got to get them out of there!”

“We can’t,” Chem said. “Imbri reports the wiggles are so thick where the children are that no one else can approach.”

“But—”

“All we can do is fight the wiggles where we encounter them, and hope that Ivy and her friends get through by themselves.”

“But Ivy’s only three years old!”

“And a Sorceress.”

Irene stifled her reply, as it could only have debased a long friendship and would not have rescued her threatened child. She wanted a live daughter, not a dead Sorceress!

They had been moving along rapidly, covering much more distance in an hour than the children could have done. Guided by Mare Imbri’s indication of the location of the children, Irene knew they were now very close.