Harpy Thyme (24 page)

Jack began to get impatient. “Listen, frogface-” Then he thought the better of it. “Yes, I wish this.”

“That is good to know, mammal creature."

There was a pause. “Well, why don't you?” Jack asked.

“You did not say please.”

“Please fetch out the bottle for me.”

“What's in it for me, toothmouth?”

“Oh, you mean you want something in return?”

“Do I look like a charity outfit? Of course I want something in return!”

“What do you want?”

“I want you to take me to your leader.”

“Huh?”

“You're not the brightest character, are you?” the frog observed.

Jack, evidently somewhat nettled, nevertheless managed to remain mild. “Why do you want to go to my leader? I mean, I should think you'd prefer to remain in your nice chill puddle or something.”

“You're a peasant, right? So your leader is a prince or king, right? I need to be kissed by one of those.”

"Kissed by a prince? Why?'

“Because I am not an ordinary frog. I am an enchanted princess, doomed to remain a frog until kissed by a prince or king. If you were a prince, I'd have you kiss me. Since you're just a peasant, you're no good to me. But if you take me to your prince, he can kiss me. Then the enchantment will be broken, and I will return to my glorious natural form and can go home to my fabulous kingdom, okay?”

“Oh. I see. Okay, I'll take you with me. But it may be a while before I reach the king's castle.”

“I'll wait,” the frog said. Then she dived down to the bottom of the cistern and fetched up the golden bottle from where it sat at the edge of the stage.

Jack took it. Then he headed back to the castle.

“Hey, wait for me!” the frog cried. But he was already out of hearing.

He brought the bottle to the princess. “Now what?” he asked her. “I don't see anything in there.”

“I don't know what's in it,” she said. “Only that whatever it is, is what the giant fears.”

There was a thumping at the wall-door. “Croak!”

“What's that?” the princess asked, alarmed.

“Oh, that's just the stupid frog wanting to come in.”

“Why does it want to come in?”

“Because I told it I'd take it with me, so it could kiss a prince some day.”

“Well, then, you made a deal, and you must honor it,” the princess said sternly. “Let the frog in. Besides, it will wake the giant otherwise, with all that thumping.” Indeed, one of the giant's eyelids quivered.

So Jack went out and let the frog in. It hopped up on the twenty-quilt bed. “Oh, this is comfy,” it said. “But there's a discontinuity. There must have been a pea underneath, not long ago.”

“There was a nasty old magic bean,” the princess said. “How did you know?”

“I'm a princess. My skin is very sensitive. I felt the ripple left by that erstwhile bean.”

“Oh, that explains it. Now what do we do with the bottle?”

“The peasant must take it to where the giant is sleeping, and open it. It contains a bad dream that will frighten him. He fears nothing in the world, but the dream realm is something else.”

“So Jack took the bottle to the sleeping giant,” the narrator said, as Jack did so. “He opened the bottle, and out poured a menacing vapor.”

Indeed, the vapor swirled and thickened, then thinned to reveal-the narrator, in a pointed horror-hat. He did the “Danse Macabre,” rattling his bones. “I am Death,” the white skull said. “I have come to take you away with me, Giant!”

“Who?” the giant inquired blankly.

“Death. I was locked in that bottle, but now the deadlock has been unlocked and I am free to resume my business. When I take a dryad from her tree I leave only deadwood behind. Now I have come for you. So make yourself ready for your dead end.”

“Oooh!” the giant groaned. Then he burst into tears. “Oh, I'm glad my mother the Queen of Giants can't see me now, bless her royal bones! All I wanted to do was make her happy by not marrying below my station, and now I'm going away with Death instead. Oh, woe is me!”

“He's a prince?” the princess and the frog asked together. “So it seems,” Jack said. “But don't worry. Death is reducing him to a quivering nonentity, and we shall soon be rid of him.”

“Not so fast, Mack,” the frog said.

“That's Jack.”

“Not so fast, Jack. I want him to kiss me first.”

“And I'm sorry we made him cry,” the princess said. “I didn't know he was royal. Hey, Prince Giant! Would it make you feel better if I agreed to marry you after all?”

The giant woke. “Oh, yes,” he agreed, immediately cheering up.

“But first kiss me,” the frog said. “Wait,” the princess said. “If he kisses you, and you return to princessly format, he might want to marry you instead of me.”

“Are you kidding?” the frog demanded. “I've got a princely boyfriend back home. My father doesn't like him, so he enchanted me to keep me from marrying my boyfriend. He figured my boyfriend would never find me and kiss me back to femininity before I got old an unattractive. Now we'll elope before my father catches on, and it'll be too late for any more enchantment.”

“But I wanted to marry the princess,” Jack protested.

Both princess and frog burst out laughing. “You? A peasant? Marry a princess? Just what fantasy world do you live in, Mack?” the frog asked.

“Well, I should have something for my trouble,” Jack said, out of sorts.

“Oh, take a bag of money and get out of here,” the giant said, tossing down a tiny bag that was nevertheless all Jack could carry.

Death doffed his hat, and the narrator donned his hat “And so the giant kissed the frog,” he said, as the giant did so, and the frog puffed into an extremely voluptuous princess with a remarkably low décolletage. “And then freed the other princess, and she kissed the giant,” as Gloha flew up to perch on Graeboe's lower lip so as to kiss his upper lip. “And they married and lived happily almost ever after. Jack took his bag of gold home to his mother, who was fairly pleased, considering that it wasn't a bigger bag, and so were the village peasant girls, who suddenly discovered qualities in Jack they had somehow overlooked when he was poor. And Death, freed from imprisonment in the bottle, resumed business as usual, as many of you will discover in due course.” He bowed to the audience. “We trust you have enjoyed our presentation,” he concluded with a lipless grin.

The cynical Curse Fiends tried to retain their aloofness. Then it cracked. One of the members of the Black contingent started applauding, and then a few more. Gloha saw that the first one was Sherlock, whom she had met when riding on Swiftmud with Magician Trent's party. Others around him joined in, and finally some of the Curse Fiends. Not a majority, but a fair minority. She wondered whether Sherlock supported her because he recognized her and Trent, or because her goblin skin was as dark as his, or because he simply liked the play. She hoped it was the last reason.

Contumelo grimaced. “The applause meter said your effort qualifies, barely. We should be able to rewrite your play and make it into something presentable to ignorant children. You are free to go now."

“About time, curseface,” the Frog Princess said.

Then Graeboe slowly heaved himself to a hunched sitting position, lifted up the edge of the dome, stood, and stepped out of the building. Gloha, Trent, and Marrow exited the arena in more conventional manner. Metria popped out of sight with a rude noise, leaving only a foul waft of smoke behind to annoy the Curse Fiends.

They saw the giant standing outside. He looked lonely. “What's the matter?” Gloha called to him.

“Well, I don't have anywhere to go,” he replied. “Geographically or in life.”

“Would you like to come along with us?” Gloha asked before she thought.

“Why, yes,” he agreed. “I enjoyed our brief association, and would like to extend it. Perhaps I can be of some further service to you, before I expire.”

“Fool!” Metria's voice came from the air beside her. “Your soft girlish human heart is going to get you into trouble sometime.”

Gloha wasn't sure how they were going to manage with a sick giant along, but Graeboe was a nice person, so she didn't really regret her impulse. And it was possible that he would be able to help them out in some way, such as if they had to cross a mighty river, chasm, or desert.

Trent and Marrow didn't comment.

They walked on along the invisible line Crombie had pointed out, southeast of Lake Ogre-Chobee. There were routine problems like rivers, dragons, cliffs, and unfriendly B's, but they were able to handle these with the giant's big hand and a little imagination.

Then as they were looking for a suitable place to camp for the night, where there was room for the giant to sleep, Gloha spied a creature flying in. For half an instant she was afraid it was a dragon or griffon, but then she saw that it was a crossbreed. It wasn't exactly a harpy, because the body was wrong, but it wasn't a griffon either. “Hey!” she called.

Startled, the creature hesitated. Then it flew away.

“Wait!” Gloha cried, flying after it. “I'm not an enemy! I'm a crossbreed. A winged monster. Like you.”

The other creature paused, allowing Gloha to catch up. It turned out to be female. “Oh, so you are,” she said. “I was afraid you were a man with a bow and arrow or something.”

Gloha hovered near her. “No, I'm a unique creature. I think maybe you are too. What are you?”

“I'm half girl, half griffon. My name's Amanda.” She blushed faintly. She seemed to be somewhat younger than Gloha. Her shoulder-length yellow hair was tied back with a blue ribbon that matched the hue of her wings. “My parents met at a love spring. They don't speak of it often.”

Gloha appreciated that. “I'm Gloha Goblin-Harpy.”

They shook hands, hovering.

“I'm looking for my species,” Amanda said. “But I haven't found any others quite like me. I don't know what I should call myself.”

“You look like a girlfon to me,” Gloha said.

“A girlfon! That's perfect. Well, I had better get on home before Mom misses me.”

“Bye,” Gloha called as the girlfon flew away. She was somewhat sorry that it hadn't turned out to be a male winged goblin. Still, if there were a love spring nearby, there might be such a goblin. That could be why Crombie's finger had pointed this way. So maybe this was an encouraging sign.

She returned to their campsite. “It wasn't the one I was looking for,” she said regretfully.

“Perhaps next time,” Graeboe said. He was now sitting carefully beside their campsite. “You're such a nice girl, there must be a boy for you somewhere.”

“Thank you,” she said, flattered.

Trent had meanwhile transformed a small plant into a big tent caterpillar. The tent had room for himself, Gloha, Marrow, Metria, and the giant's face. The rest of Graeboe was covered by several other tents. Cushions from a transformed pillow bush served for their beds and Graeboe's head.

They feasted on berry pies, because pie plants were the easiest way for transformations to provide food. There were also pods of milk from milkweeds, and chocolate from a chocolate plant. Metria and Marrow did not need to eat, so contented themselves with exploring the surrounding region. Graeboe, oddly, did not eat any more than Trent did.

“Are you sure it's enough?” Gloha asked him, concerned.

“My illness diminishes my hunger,” the giant replied. “Have no concern.”

“But I am concerned. You can't do giantly things if you don't eat like a giant.”

“True. I am weak and worsening. I know I am not the best of company. I appreciate your willingness to have me with your party. This gives me some valued solace.”

“Don't you know anything about your malady? Maybe you could find a cure, if you had a name for it.”

“I know only that it is a disease of the blood. My body does not make blood quite the way it should. As a result, I have less and less of it, and that makes me weaker each day. I would have trouble keeping up, were you folk not so much smaller than I am.”

“Maybe Magician Trent could transform you to some other form, that doesn't need as much blood,” she suggested.

“That would not help,” Trent said. “That form would have the same illness. I can change folk's forms, but can't heal them.”

“Maybe if we found a bloodroot-”

“No,” Graeboe said gently. “My body can use only the blood it makes itself. It comes from my bones. But please do not dismay yourself on my account; I have no wish to cause you any discomfort, lovely little creature.”

Gloha was flattered again. She wasn't at all sure she deserved the good opinion the giant had of her. Probably he was merely thankful for someone to talk to. “The Good Magician must have had reason to send you to this region, just as he indirectly sent me here. Maybe there are answers for both of us, just a little farther along.”

“It is nice to think so,” he agreed wanly.

Then Marrow and Metria returned. “What's this?” the demoness exclaimed. “Making out in a tent?”

“What passes for your mind is in a rut,” Trent informed her. “Graeboe and Gloha have merely been talking.”

“Then we were doing better than you,” Metria retorted.

Gloha knew that this was supposed to arouse her curiosity and force her to inquire. She stifled it as long as she could, but it was too much for her to contain. “What were you doing?” she asked.

The demoness looked at her triumphantly. “I thought you'd never ask! We were summoning the stork.”

Gloha, Trent, and Graeboe choked, almost together. “But-” Gloha managed to speak.

“She kissed me,” Marrow explained. “That is not quite the same.”

“It's close enough,” Metria said stoutly.

“Walking skeletons do not summon the stork,” Marrow said. “We assemble our little ones from spare bones. But in any event, I would not choose to summon or construct with a demoness. I am a married skeleton.”

“Oh, pooh!” Metria said. “What's so special about marriage? The stork listens regardless.”

“You are a demoness,” Trent reminded her. “You have no soul, and therefore no conscience. You can't love. You have no basis for understanding.”

“But I'd like to understand,” Metria said, frustrated.

“Why?” Gloha asked, curious.

“In the Madness Region I was Trent's wife, for a time,” the demoness said. “There was something there. It seemed interesting. I don't like missing out on anything interesting. I want to know what love is.”

Graeboe shook his head slightly; any greater motion would have knocked down the tent. “I would like to know what love is too. Possession of a soul does not guarantee love.”

“That's right,” Gloha agreed. “I have never known stork-variety love.”

“Because you're the only one of your type,” Metria said. “When you find a winged goblin man, you'll get into stork language quickly enough.”

“To answer your question,” Trent said, “marriage is, to those with souls, a sacred contract. The parties to it agree to love only each other, and to summon the stork with no other people. It is possible to summon the stork outside of marriage, but this is generally frowned on. You, as a demoness, can assume any form you wish. You can go through the motions, of summoning the stork, simply by showing some naive man your panties and encouraging him to proceed. But that isn't marriage or love.”

“Maybe if I married someone, I'd find out about love,” she said.

“I doubt it. You could go through the ceremony, but it wouldn't mean anything to you. The only demoness I know of who was able to love was Dara, who married Magician Humfrey a long time ago. But she had a soul. As soon as she lost her soul, she reverted to form and left him in the lurch.”

“But she came back,” Metria said.

“A hundred and thirty-six years later,” he reminded her. “Because she was bored. She doesn't actually love him now. She merely emulates the mood. However, you might ask her what it was like when she did love him.”

“I have. She said I would never understand.”

“So there you are. Maybe you should give it up, Metria, and let us proceed on our various quests without your kibitzing.”

“No, I want to know what love is. You're my closest approach. Maybe if I watch you close enough, I'll learn.”

“Not by trying to seduce married skeletons,” he said.

Metria pondered briefly. Then her clothing began to fuzz away.

“Or married Magicians,” Trent added, closing his eyes.

“Curses! Foiled again,” the demoness muttered, dissolving into smoke.

Gloha closed her own eyes. She had a certain sympathy with Metria's frustration. It was not too far from her own.

In the morning they moved on. Gloha wasn't sure whether it was her imagination, but she had the impression that Graeboe Giant was weaker. It took him some time to get to his feet, and then he seemed unsteady. But it might simply be that he was always a bit fuzzy in the morning. So she flew up to inquire.

“Graeboe, are you all right?” she asked as she landed on his shoulder near his face. “I mean, apart from your malady?”

“Please do not concern yourself, pretty thing,” he replied.

“Now stop that!” she said with an annoyed little irritation. “You did it last night. You think that because I'm so small, I must be childlike, and you're patronizing me. I am concerned.”

“Oh, no, Gloha,” he protested. “I don't see you as a child at all. You're a lovely person, in body and mind. I merely do not wish to burden you with any problem of mine.”

“Well, tell me anyway,” she said, mollified.

He sighed. “I am weaker each day. I think I shall be able to keep on my feet only a few more days. When I fear I will not be able to get up again, I shall make my way to some desolate wilderness and there expire, as I have said.”

“But you're supposed to find help here, and it must be us who can help you, somehow. You can't just give up.”

“Perhaps so,” he agreed, not debating the matter.

“It must be so,” she said firmly. She walked along his shoulder, came to his giant ear, spread her wings, and flew up to kiss his earlobe. Then she flew back down to ground level.

They proceeded southeast in their assorted fashions. Graeboe took huge slow steps, setting his feet down carefully so as not to crush any houses or trees. Metria smoked out at one place and smoked in again at another. Gloha made short flights. Trent and Marrow simply walked. No more monsters bothered them, perhaps having caught on that a party including a giant and a Magician made poor prospects for prey.

Then they came to the Faun & Nymph Retreat. They could tell, because there was a sign by the path saying that. It turned out to be a small mountain by a lake, where the fauns and nymphs cavorted happily all day long. The fauns were human in form except for their cute little horns and goat's feet, while the nymphs were completely human except for their attitude: when chased, they screamed fetchingly, kicked their feet, and flung their hair about. When caught, they-

Gloha looked around, nervous that children might be in the vicinity. Fortunately there were none, so no violation of the Adult Conspiracy to Keep Children Ignorant of Interesting Things was occurring. She understood that Princess Ida had grown up in this general vicinity, but she had been too innocent to know that she wasn't supposed to see such activity. Because what they were doing was stork summoning, constantly. The odd thing was that the storks seldom if ever responded to these constant signals. Maybe they knew that fauns and nymphs could not raise children, because they didn't have families. They were unable to remember anything overnight, so no enduring relationships existed.

“I wonder where new fauns and nymphs come from?” Gloha said musingly as they watched the activity of the Retreat. “I mean, if the storks don't come here-”

“They are immortal, I believe,” Trent replied. “At least until some few of them become mortal. Remember, Jewel the Nymph didn't begin to age until she fell in love and married.”

“Jewel was always a special nymph,” Gloha said. “She put the gemstones in the ground for prospectors to find. She had a soul. I think she was able to remember things even before she married.”

“Yes, she was special. She may have been on the way to womanhood, which was why she was capable of love. Now that she's retiring, a new nymph from this region is being trained to do the job, and no doubt she is starting to remember things too. But here they have no need for memory. It may be that any who leave the Retreat start to assume normal human qualities.”

Marrow was tilting his skull, looking here and there. Metria noticed this. “You are interested in peeking at stork summoning?” she inquired snidely.

“No, I think for them that is mere entertainment,” the skeleton replied. “What concerns me is the apparent imbalance in the numbers.”

Now the others were curious. “Imbalance?” Gloha asked. “It looks to me as if they are doing it in the usual ratio: one faun to one nymph at a time.”

“But see how many fauns are left over,” Marrow said. “In fact lines of fauns are forming near each nymph. I had understood that the numbers were supposed to be approximately equal. That seems not to be the case.”

He. was right. There were about three times as many fauns as nymphs. As a result, the nymphs were considerably busier than the fauns. That did not seem to bother the nymphs, but the fauns seemed to be somewhat unfaunly out of sorts. It was evident that each would really have preferred to have one or more nymphs to himself.

“Perhaps we should inquire,” Trent said with a third of a smile.

So Gloha stepped up to the nearest faun. “Why aren't there as many nymphs as fauns here?”

He looked at her. “A tiny winged clothed nymph!” he exclaimed. “I didn't know you existed. Come play with me!” He reached for her.

Marrow extended a bone-arm to block the faun. “This is not a nymph,” he said. “Merely a foreign visitor. Answer her question.”

“Oh.” The faun stifled his disappointment. “I don't know why there aren't enough nymphs. There just aren't, is all.” He ran off in pursuit of a nymph who was momentarily free.

“That of course is the problem,” Trent remarked. “They don't remember. Something must have happened to a number of the nymphs.”

“A dragon ate them?” Gloha asked, horrified.

“Dragons and other predators are impartial about the sex of their prey,” Trent said thoughtfully. “They should take out about as many fauns as nymphs. There must be some other explanation.”

“Men, maybe,” Metria said. “Human men really like nymphs, I understand, while human women don't care as much for fauns.”