Five Portraits (10 page)

Win smiled, accepting that. One pair had been made.

“Now I'll pick one,” Santo said. “Metria.”

“You like fighting?” Metria asked, surprised.

“No. But you're pretty…” The demoness straightened up, smiling. “Wild,” the boy concluded. Metria puffed into roiling smoke, but did not argue the case. Another pair.

“Merge?” Astrid asked.

“Myst,” Merge said immediately.

“Why me?” the little girl asked.

“Because you can break up into multiple bits of water. I can break up into five girls.” Merge fragmented into her five components.

“That's not as good as yours,” Brown said.

“But it's the same idea,” Black added.

“So we understand you,” Blue concluded.

It was a persuasive argument, and Myst smiled, accepting it. Three pairs.

Then it was Squid's turn. “Can you really turn into a board?” she asked Kandy.

Kandy became the board. Squid picked it up and swung it. “Neat.” Then Ease picked both up. “I'm never board with her,” he said, and the child creature laughed, appreciating the joke.

That left Astrid herself. “I guess that means you, Firenze,” she said. “We're the last picks. We're stuck with each other.”

“Stuck,” he agreed, frowning. But he didn't seem displeased. They had come to understand each other somewhat in the course of their conflicts, and it was possible he respected someone who could make him behave. Some children did. “Actually you don't look bad. For a basilisk.”

“For a basilisk,” she agreed cheerfully, and kissed him on the cheek. That ruined the moment.

They split up into assorted tasks of temporary family making, arranging sleeping places in the tents and ascertaining food preferences. They even did a bit of scouting for virus pockets, to give the children the feel of the mission. They seemed to settle in well enough.

But there were awkwardnesses with Firenze. He was just old enough to understand the Adult Conspiracy, and to dislike it. When she sat on the ground and crossed her legs, he looked, until a warning touch of her glasses dissuaded him. When Art stepped on a thorn his flying cussword came out
BLEEP
because of the presence of the child. When she harvested clothing to fit Firenze he didn't want her to try it on him first, because he didn't want her to seem him undressed. And how was she to be intimate with Art, with the boy close by?

The last problem took care of itself. Firenze had had a long hard day, and was tired. When darkness came he lay down on his mat and was almost instantly asleep. She covered him with a light blanket, then quietly joined Art and silently put him to sleep too.

When she woke in the morning, she was surprised to find herself alone. She quickly washed up and dressed, aware that privacy was more difficult now, then went out of the tent. There were Art and Firenze, evidently both early risers, with a painting canvas set up. “A little more purple,” Art was saying. “It makes the clouds prettier.”

Art was giving Firenze a painting lesson, and the boy was interested! Astrid had never anticipated that.

That reminded her. She had an Answer, “Five Portraits,” but no Question. Meanwhile they needed to find a way to save Xanth, fifty years hence. Too bad the two didn't relate.

Or did they? There was an Answer without a Question, and a Question without an Answer. Could they match up? Or if not, could they be made to match up? Then they might have a way to save Xanth.

“Eureka!” she exclaimed.

“We do not reek,” Art said, annoyed.

“Maybe she's an art critic,” Firenze said.

Astrid had to laugh. “That was an expression of discovery, not a critique of you or your painting. I think maybe I just might have figured out a way to save Xanth. If I can understand it.” Then she explained about putting the Question and Answer together.

“Maybe so,” Art said doubtfully.

“Maybe we can ask the Playground,” Firenze said.

“It can answer that?”

“Maybe. We'll see.” He brought out his match and struck it against a stone. And vanished.

Art was startled. “What happened?”

“The matches take them to the matchbox, which is the Playground,” Astrid said.

“I believe Santo has the matchbox.”

They went to Metria's tent, where Firenze was talking with Santo. “So if we go to the Playground, maybe we'll know,” he was saying.

“Maybe,” Santo agreed. “Call them in. I'll unfold the Playground.” He got to work on it, and soon it was spread out before them.

Firenze put his hands to his mouth, megaphone style. “Alle alle alle infree!”

In three-eighths of a moment the three girls joined them, holding their matches. “We need to decide whether we have the right Question and Answer,” Firenze explained. “How can Xanth be saved? Five Portraits.”

“Does that make sense?” Squid asked.

“Maybe. The Playground should know.”

“But we need to put on a play,” Win said.

“We don't have a play,” Santo said.

“You need a playwright,” Astrid said. “That's a person who writes plays.”

The other adults had gathered around. “Anyone here have literary ambition?” Art asked.

No one did.

“Then we have a problem,” Astrid said.

“Does it have to be a good play?” Kandy asked.

“No,” Firenze said. “But a bad play will lead to a bad answer.”

“So it needs to be halfway decent,” Astrid said.

“I need imagination to find new types of holes,” Santo said. “I could try a play. It wouldn't be great, but maybe I could learn with practice.”

“It would be full of holes,” Metria said.

“Yeah.”

“Firenze, you're the oldest,” Astrid said. “Maybe you should try it.”

“I guess,” the boy agreed reluctantly.

“Idea for the Play,” Myst said. “Our rescue from the future.”

The other children exchanged a glance or three. “For the first one, why not?” Firenze asked. “It will seem original.”

“We'll play while you make a play,” Squid said, giggling.

They did. Astrid made written notes based on Firenze's ideas, adapting their rescue to play form. Then they drilled the children on their parts, which were formal presentations of what they had done. Astrid served as Narrator and Prompter. Then they tried putting it on.

The adults went to sit on the benches before that stage. The children went to stand around it. There were no curtains, but maybe they weren't needed.

Astrid took center stage. “We are here to present the Play titled ‘Rescue,'” she announced. “Three adults have just arrived at the Cable Station. Lo, a cable car is approaching.”

Firenze ran up on the state, making a chugging sound. “Is this the end of the line?” he asked.

“No, but it will do,” Astrid said.

“Then I want to ride on to the end. That's what my folks told me to do.”

“The end is doom,” Astrid said. “You must come with us.”

“I don't want to!”

“I am a basilisk. Do what I tell you, or I will kill you with a stare.”

The boy considered it. “Okay, I'll stay.” It did not sound very persuasive, but he was after all not a practiced playwright or actor. It would have to do.

“Another car is coming,” Astrid said loudly.

Squid scrambled up. She was in her natural form, using her eight tentacles. When she got onstage and saw Astrid and Firenze, she put her tentacles together to form limbs and made herself into a little girl. “I am a alien visitor. An oct—oct—a squid. I need to be rescued.”

“We're here to rescue you,” Astrid said.

“Thank you.” Squid joined their little group.

Santo was the next to arrive, followed by Win and finally Myst. Their group was complete.

“And so the five children were brought here to present-day Xanth,” Astrid concluded. “We hope to live happily ever after.”

The audience dutifully applauded. The actors onstage bowed, pleased with their performances. Then they left the stage. The Play was done. Would it suffice?

The children linked hands an focused. “Yes!” little Myst exclaimed gladly.

Astrid was cautious. “So the Playground will enhance your ability to choose the correct path. Is this permanent, whenever you are in the Playground, or one-shoot, and you have to perform a play each time you have a serious question?”

“Each time,” Santo said.

“Then you will need to phrase your concern carefully, to be sure of getting the guidance you need. If you phrase it carelessly, you will waste your effort.”

“We know what it is,” Squid said. “Xanth will be saved by five portraits. Yes or no.”

“Five portraits of whom?” Astrid asked.

That set them back. “We didn't think about that,” Firenze admitted.

“I plan to paint five portraits, to start,” Art said. “Of the five beautiful women in our party. When we encounter a suitable setting for each. I just sort of assumed those would be the ones.”

“And what connection would those portraits have with saving Xanth?” Astrid asked. “They're just pictures.”

“Or with us?” Santo asked. “We're the ones most affected by the end of Xanth.”

“Maybe it's not such a good assumption,” Art said, troubled.

“There's a connection,” Firenze said. “We feel it.” The other children nodded together. They were remarkably different in appearance and abilities, but oddly unified in this.

“Maybe we need to know
how
Xanth will be saved by five portraits,” Kandy said.

“That's not the sort of question we or the Playground can answer,” Santo said. “There needs to be a definite plan. Then we can tell whether it's right or wrong.”

The adults and the children pondered, mutually stumped.

Then Firenze brightened. “I remember a picture!”

Astrid focused immediately, not questioning the relevance. “Describe it.”

“It was of my great grandparents. With Grandpa, when he was a boy no older than I am, ten. It hung on our wall. Nobody paid any attention to it, but it had been passed down through the generations, a sort of record. I used to look at it, 'cause the boy looked sort of like me, and I wondered if he was like me. Now I wonder—” He broke off, confused.

“Go on,” Astrid said gently. “Your memory may be relevant, as it is about a portrait.”

“Yes. It's that the woman, Great Grandma, she, well, she—”

“Yes?”

“She maybe looked sort of like you.”

Astrid felt a shock of familiarity. “Like me?”

“Well, maybe not, exactly. But she had these big dark glasses on, like the ones you wear. So her face was sort of covered and I guess it could have been anyone. But when I saw you out by the cable car, well, I guess I was more ready to listen to you, 'cause you reminded me of her.”

“A fortunate coincidence,” Astrid said. “But of course I couldn't be your great grandma. I'm not even human.”

“Yeah.” He sounded almost disappointed.

“Unless you adopted him,” Kandy said. “Or adopted his grandpa.”

Both Astrid and Firenze laughed. “Wouldn't that be something!” Astrid said. “A basilisk in your ancestry!”

“I could pretend to have the glare,” the boy agreed, making a horrific face.

“But there may be a kernel of relevance here,” Kandy said. “He remembers a portrait, and it could be of an adoptive family. Maybe the portraits are of those families.”

Astrid nodded. “Five adoptions, painted when they are complete. Art can paint them when the time is right. Then maybe he'll be free to paint the women of our own party, when the fate of Xanth no longer hangs in the balance. And the children, safely embedded in this Xanth, can then work to make sure it doesn't go the way theirs did. That would be completely relevant.”

“So what's the program?” Santo asked.

“Whether to work to get the adoptions accomplished, and the portraits painted,” Astrid said. “So as to save Xanth.”

The children looked at each other, and nodded.

“So how do you invoke the Playground's assistance?”

“We link here onstage,” Squid said.

“Then I will get out of your way,” Astrid said. She stepped down the small stairs at the edge of the stage. At the foot of it her foot caught on something and she stumbled into an alcove marked DO NOT ENTER. Oops!

She caught her balance. Every so often she did have a problem, because her reflexes were for four legs instead of two. She straightened up and turned to step out of the alcove. And paused.

She was no longer at the foot of the stage. She stood in a flat plain whose landscape extended to the horizon on every side. There was no apparent way back. It seemed that the DO NOT ENTER marking was serious, because it had no visible exit. It had to be associated in some way with the stage, maybe as a place for actors to wait before stepping into their roles, or as storage for stage props. But how was she to rejoin the other members of the audience?

She looked about more carefully. There were scattered trees filled with assorted nests. Was this some sort of bird sanctuary? She walked to the nearest tree to inspect its nest.

A bird flew up out of it. “Auk!” it cried. “A prig!” It circled up over her head and loosed an egg at her. She ducked so that it avoided her head, and it struck the ground where it exploded in a ball of smoke and yolk.

Astrid retreated, but clumsily, almost falling. Why was she suddenly so awkward? Then she realized that it was because of the bird, the auk. It was an Aukward, making her lose dexterity. A groaner of a pun. Fortunately she recovered as she got away from its nest and the fumes of the broken egg.

What had it called her? A prig? She was no prig.

Then she saw a woman at another tree. She was taking an egg from its nest, while the brightly colored bird fluttered helplessly. “Get out of here, prig!” the bird exclaimed.