Yon Ill Wind (7 page)

A dim bulb flashed.  That trail blazer—suppose she moved that to the other side?  Would it then blaze a new path there, where she wanted it?  That might be the answer.

She reached for the jacket, but it was just out of reach.

She stretched her arm out—and got scratched again.  Apparently that piece of apparel wasn't supposed to be taken.

So much for blazing a new trail.

So she couldn't move the path.  What else was there?

Move the gardens?

A dim bulb appeared over her head, but didn't flash.  It simply hung there expectantly.  She hadn't quite gotten her bright notion yet.

Was there a way to change the positions of the gardens, so that the same path led through the nice part?  Now she thought there could be.  It was exactly the kind of inverted thinking that the Good Magician was noted for.

Chlorine reconsidered the gardens and the path.  Now she saw that the path wound past a nasty-looking well.  She made her way to it, stepping carefully to avoid the nettles and thorns, and peered in.  Smoky fumes smudged her face and jammed up her nose.  Phew!  That wasn't water in there, that was firewater.  Not exactly poisonous; she knew poisoned water when she encountered it, that being her talent.  But not exactly healthy, either.  Mean spirits.  This was one mean well.

Across the path from it was a dingy thyme plant.  She turned to consider it.  Thyme was tricky stuff, she knew; it could speed things up or slow them down, or even just change the time of day.  Normally she stayed well clear of it.  But could there be a reason it was growing here, so close to the path and the well?  Her bulb brightened slightly.

Mean well, mean thyme.  In the mean section of the garden.  It figured.  But there were other meanings of mean.

Such as when a person meant well.  Then the intention was good, even if the result wasn't.  Could this be that kind of well?  And the thyme plant—it affected time, and sometimes time was sort of average, and they might call that mean time.  It wasn't necessarily nasty, merely rounded off.

Suppose some of that well-meaning water were poured by the thyme plant—would that round off the time in a good way?  Her bulb brightened.  It well might!

She took the grubby bucket and dipped some of the smoking water out.  Of course, it looked awful, because its true nature wasn't supposed to be obvious.  But if she was right—

She poured the water at the base of the thyme plant.  It turned greener and healthier almost immediately.  Then night fell.

What?  Chlorine looked around, startled.  It hadn't been close to nighttime!  Oh—the thyme plant, feeling its oats, as it were, had accelerated time, bringing the garden rapidly to night.  Maybe she should have anticipated that.

But what good did it do her?  It wouldn't be any easier to forge through this tangle by night than by day.  Unless—

Now her dim bulb flashed so brightly that the entire garden lit up.  Sure enough:  this was now the kinder section of the garden.  It was a kinder/meaner garden, and one section was as different from the other as day from night.  So it was night, and suddenly this half was the nice one with the path wending pleasantly through it.  She had found the way at last.

“Come, Nimby,” she said, as if this were routine.  “We shall pay a call on the Good Magician.” And she marched down the path, her way lit by pretty glowworms set along the edges.

The path led right to the castle entrance.  Chlorine knocked on the door, and it opened immediately.  A pretty young woman stood there.  “Welcome to the Good Magician's Castle, Chlorine and Nimby,” she said.  “I am Wira, his daughter-in-law.  Please come this way.”

So she had, indeed, been expected.  She was glad she had played it straight, and found her own way through the challenges.

They followed her inside.  The interior was surprisingly light, because rays shone in through the high windows.

Chlorine realized that it wasn't really night; that had just been a local effect in the garden, which passed when they left the vicinity of the thyme plant.

“How did you know our names?” Chlorine inquired.

“If my memory is correct, you—can't even see us.”

“It is true I am blind,” Wira said.  “But I know this castle well, and can't get lost.  And I overheard Magician Humfrey grumbling about the situation.  It seems he had no trouble identifying you.  Chlorine, but your friend Nimby baffled him.  He had to look him up in the Big Book of Answers, sure that there was no such person.  But the Book had an entry the Magician must have forgotten, and it said Nimby was a dragon ass with the magic talent of enabling himself and his companion to be whatever the companion wished them to be.  That his full name was Not In My Back Yard, because most people didn't like him.

The Magician shook his head, not wanting to admit that he had been ignorant of such a creature.  I fear he is beginning to feel his age.”

Chlorine smiled.  “The Book of Answers spoke truly.

Nimby is not the man he appears to be, but he is much nicer than he looks in his natural form.  He is welcome in my back yard, for I have come to know him by his actions, not his appearance.  His only liability is that he can't speak.

He is enabling me to have a really nice time, for now.”

“For now?”

“I know it has to end all too soon, and I will return to my wretched home life.  But I will always have this wonderful adventure to remember, my single shining moment, thanks to Nimby.  I intend to make the most of it.”

“I fear the Good Magician means to make more of it than you expect.”

“Oh, no, my year's Service is part of it,” Chlorine said cheerfully.  “I am resigned to that.  It will extend my adventure.”

Wira brought them to a rather dull-looking woman in a sewing room who was mending a pile of socks.  “Mother Sofia, here are our visitors,” Wira said.

Sofia looked up.  “Are you sure you want to broach Himself with your Question?  He will require you to perform a most arduous Service in return.”

“Yes, of course,” Chlorine agreed.  “I look forward to it.  The more adventurous the better.”

“As you wish.  Wira will take you to him now.”

The blind young woman led them up a dark winding stone stairway to a squeezed crowded chamber.  There in the shadows sat the Good Magician Humfrey Himself.  He looked grumpily up from his monstrous tome.  “Yes?”

“Where is my last tear?” Chlorine asked.

“It is in your eyes, spread across them to keep them moist.  Half of it keeps your right eye well, and the other half keeps your left eye well.  Without that final tear, you would immediately go blind.”

Chlorine was amazed.  “I never thought of that!  Of course, it must be true.”

“It is true,” Humfrey said grumpily.  “Now report to the cat-a-pult for your Service.”

But Chlorine, being nice but not too nice, balked.  “I know I have to serve a year's Service, but for that little bit of obvious-in-retrospect information?  That doesn't seem fair.”

“Please, don't argue,” Wira said worriedly.  “That only makes him grumpier.”

“Nevertheless, I will answer,” Humfrey said, more grumpily.  “You knew the conditions before you came to me, so if you wasted the chance to ask a significant Question and receive a significant Answer, the fault is yours.”

“Urn, that's right,” Chlorine said.  “I did know the terms.  I apologize for my intemperate remark.”

Humfrey looked up from his tome again and glanced at her.  His eyeballs were yellowed and streaked with purple veins, but as they focused on her they brightened and the dingy colors faded out.  “My, you are a pretty one,” he said, surprised.  “A sight for sore eyes.”

“Thanks to Nimby,” she agreed, nevertheless pleased to have made a good impression to erase some of the bad impression she had made before.  “In real life I'm plain and mean-spirited.”

“Yes, of course.  Since you have done me the slight favor of resting my eyes, I will return it by amending my answer:  it is not quite as insignificant as it might seem.

You do have the capacity to shed that final tear, if you ever choose to.  But considering the consequence, I suggest that you never allow yourself to become that unhappy.”

“You may be sure of that!” she agreed, laughing.

“Actually, I am not sure of that, which is why I have cautioned you.  There may come a time.  Do not react thoughtlessly.”

Nimby, standing beside her, seemed uneasy.

Chlorine nodded.  “Thank you for that amendment, Good Magician.  I will remember it.” Then she smiled.

This time the gloomy study brightened, and Humfrey seemed to lose five years in age.

“Oh, I wish I could see that!” Wira murmured, aware that something good had happened.  Maybe she had felt the heat of the light that had brightened the study.

“You shall,” Humfrey said, almost with the illusion of fleeting mellowness.  “Imbri?”

Then Chlorine saw a replay of the incident, as if she were another person watching herself, Wira, Nimby, and the Good Magician in the study.  She smiled, and the study lighted, and Humfrey youthened from about a hundred to about ninety-five.

“Oh, thank you.  Day Mare Imbri!” Wira exclaimed.  “I saw it!”

Chlorine was amazed.  The Good Magician had actually summoned a night mare, or rather a day mare, to give them all a day dream, so that the blind girl could see the event in the only way she could:  as a dream.  This was surely something very special.  And he must like his daughter-in-law a lot, because it was clearly for her he had done it.

But now the study faded to its natural dinginess, and the Good Magician's slightly less tired eyes reverted to his monstrous dull tome.  The interview was over.

Chlorine turned and followed Wira out, and down the steps.  The girl was smiling with the memory.  Something briefly nice had certainly happened.

Jim Baldwin looked around, bemused.  This land looked a lot like Florida, at a casual glance, but any more careful look rapidly dispelled the similarity.  It wasn't just a matter of the presence of the fantastic female creature, Sheila Centaur.  Her phenomenal bare bosom was something he could appreciate regardless of the circumstance, though, of course, he would not admit that in the presence of his family.  Mary was a reasonably liberal woman, socially, but it was plain that she was not at all easy about the filly centaur, for reasons that went beyond the fantasy element.  Correction:  they surely related to her concern about the male fantasy element.  Especially that of Sean and David.  And Jim himself, perhaps.  With reason.

They were waiting on the beach beside what resembled nothing so much as a giant pillow.  This was where the guide was supposed to arrive.  The guide that the Good Magician was sending.  After what else he had seen in this weird land, Jim was prepared to accept the notion of good and bad magicians.  He hoped the guide was competent.

He hoped to get out of this situation soon; he didn't like the way the wind was building up, however intriguingly it played with Sheila's hair.  The storm seemed to have been subsiding, but now it was building again.  That was bad news, regardless, whether in Florida or this land they called Xanth.

The children were in animated dialogue with the centaur filly, purportedly eager to learn more about Xanth.  Jim caught Mary's eye, and she joined him.  “I don't want to be an alarmist, but have you noticed the wind?” he asked her quietly.

She brushed her hair out of her face.  “Yes.” Her tone was grim.

“So maybe the distraction of the centaur is just as well, until we are able to get moving again.”

Her answering smile was genuine but somewhat strained.  “Thank you for clarifying that, Jim.”

Then something came flying through the air from the north.  They all half ducked, not sure where it was going to land.  It appeared to be a big rag doll, one of the modem type, with excellent legs.

It landed plump!  in the middle of the giant cushion.  It bounced, and got its skirt smoothed down.  It was a lovely young woman, seemingly no worse for the experience.  The boys immediately discovered a new creature to gawk at.

“Hello, folks,” she said brightly, brushing back her golden-green-tinted tresses.  “I am Chlorine, your guide, sent by the Good Magician Humfrey.  In a moment my companion will be along; then we must talk.”

Before they could do more than get their collective mouths closed, another rag-doll figure came flying across and down.  It, too, bounced, but had no skirt to get in order.

It wore slacks, and was a handsome young man.

“This is Nimby,” Chlorine said.  “He is mute, but nice.

He will help me to help you.  But first I must warn you that a bad storm is coming.”

“We had noticed,” Jim said, stepping forward.  “Hello.

I am Jim Baldwin, and this is my wife, Mary, and our children, Sean, David, and Karen.  We're from—I believe you call it Mundania.”

“We do,” Chlorine agreed with a smile.  She glanced at Sheila.  “Thank you for guiding the lost folk this far; I'm sure you are eager to return to Centaur Isle.”

“Yes I am, before the wind further intensifies,” the centaur agreed.  She turned to the family.  “I wish you the very best.  It has been pleasant meeting with you.  And if you should encounter Carleton's sister Chena, do give her his good wishes too.”

“We shall certainly do that,” Jim agreed.  “Thank you and Carleton—for your kindness in helping us this far.”

“Welcome.” She turned tail and cantered back along the beach.  The boys watched her until she was out of sight, then their eyes reverted to Chlorine, who was far more decorously dressed, but so beautiful in every respect that she was fully as distracting as the bare centaur filly.

Chlorine turned back to Jim.  “I don't want to be impolite, but what I have to say is of some urgency.  There is danger for you here.  The Good Magician's wife, Sofia, was most specific about that.  She's Mundane herself, so appreciates how difficult Xanth must be for you.  I understand you have a moving house.”

The children laughed.  “Motor home,” Mary said.  “But yes, it is a moving house.”

“Could you get it moving?  There is very little time to escape before the storm intensifies.  It is my service to guide you safely where you wish to go, but it won't be safe here very much longer.”

“We can drive it,” Jim said.  “And there is room for you and Nimby.” He wondered at the name, but this didn't seem to be the time to inquire about that.  “But we are going to need gas soon, or we'll stall.”

“Gas?” the woman asked blankly.

“Gasoline.  Petrol.  Fuel.  It—our vehicle eats it.  Drinks it.”

“Oh.” Chlorine turned to her companion.  “Nimby, do you know where there is—gas—for this creature?” Nimby nodded.  “Then show us, because we mustn't delay long.”

“Come on in,” Jim said.  “If Nimby knows where it is, he can sit up front with me and point the way.”

So they got into the van, with the silent young man taking the passenger seat in front.  Chlorine joined the family in back, which Jim knew thrilled the boys.  Ordinarily he would not pick up hitchhikers, but when in Rome—or Xanth—it was time to do as the natives did.  Chlorine was certainly right about the dangerous storm; apparently Hurricane Gladys was reintensifying, or turning back, to catch them again.  The last thing be wanted was to get caught in a hurricane, in the RV.

He started the motor.  There was an exclamation of surprise from Chlorine, but the odd Nimby took it calmly in stride.  He pointed to the trollway, which was exactly where Jim wanted to go.  It looked like a good solid highway where he could make excellent time, storm and gas permitting.

At the entrance to the trollway stood a horrendous creature.  “Don't tell me; let me guess,” Jim muttered.  “A troll.”

Nimby smiled.  Evidently he understood speech well enough; he just couldn't speak himself.  Curious fellow, but seemingly amicable.

He drew the RV to a stop before the troll.  Sure enough, there was a sign:  STOP:  PAY TROLL.  But there wasn't any indication what the fee was.

Well, he would start small.  “Here's two cents,” he said, offering two pennies to the troll.  And the creature smiled—a horrendous effect—took the pennies, and waved him on.

Maybe it was the thought that counted.  Jim pulled the vehicle onto the pavement and gathered speed.  He was almost beginning to feel at home here!

Now a sign said HIGHWAY AHEAD.  And of course, the road rose up until it was at treetop level:  a literal high way.

Things tended to be extremely literal here.  Unfortunately this elevation exposed them to the higher winds of the heights.  “Are we going to be up here long?” he asked Nimby.

The man shook his head, but gave no other information.

Certainly he was a strange one.

Jim listened to the dialogue of the others.  The children were eagerly questioning the girl Chlorine—odd name and she was answering to the best of her ability.  It was interesting.

“Yes, candy really does grow-in Xanth, and cookies of all kinds along the With-a-Cookee River,” Chlorine said.

“Doesn't food grow on trees in Mundania?”

“Oh, sure, in a way,” David agreed.  “Fruits grow on trees, and vegetables grow in gardens, and grain grows in fields.  But candy and cookies have to be made.  And paid for.  That's what allowances are for.”

“Allowances?”

“Do you have a concept of money in Xanth?” Mary asked.

“Certainly.  It is filthy green stuff that no clean person cares to touch.”

The others laughed, “That's the stuff we have,” Sean said.

A heavy gust of wind buffeted the RV.  “Oh, that reminds me,” Chlorine said.  “I must tell you of the great danger you face.  The Good Magician told me to be sure to make you understand.  You see, there has been a weakening in the Interface—”

“Whose face?” Karen asked.

“The Xanth Interface.  It keeps the Mundanes out.  No offense.  Something went wrong, and a Mundane storm came through—and you folk too.  The storm is headed for the center of Xanth.  That means it will sweep up a lot of magic dust, and—”

“Magic dust?” Sean asked.

“That's the dust that wells up in the center of Xanth, bringing the magic,” she explained.  “Without it, we wouldn't have magic, and it would be horrible.  But where the dust is too thick, the magic is too strong, and so there is madness.  If Happy Bottom spreads that dust across Xanth—”

“Gotcha,” Sean said.  “Everybody goes mad.”

“Well, not exactly.  But things could get very strange.

However, you don't need to worry about that.  I'm supposed to help you get through Xanth and out of danger before the storm gets too bad.  So we must hurry.  There won't be much time to stop and sleep.”

“No problem,” Sean said.  “We'll sleep in the RV while Dad-drives.”

Which meant no sleep for Dad, Jim reflected.  Well, it had happened before.  He didn't like the way the wind was building, and would far rather stay ahead of the worst of it if he could, sleep no object.

Nimby pointed to the side.  There was an exit ramp.  Jim steered the vehicle to it.  The thing spiraled around and around, corkscrewing down to the ground.  He had had no idea they had gotten so high!  The treetops had vanished without his noticing.

As they neared the ground.  Nimby pointed again.  There beside the road was a big ugly purple tree, and under the tree stood a big uglier purple monster with greenish gills.

It looked most uncomfortable.  Jim hoped the discomfort wasn't hunger, because the thing was big enough to gobble down a man and a child.  He hoped Nimby knew what he was doing.

“Oh, there's a gas guzzler,” Chlorine said, putting her pretty head close to his so she could peer out.  She smelled faintly of delight.

A gas guzzler.  It figured.  “We can get gas from it?”

“Yes.  Just make a deal.”

A deal.  He would have to feel his way through this one, as he had with the troll.

He drew to a stop beside the monster and rolled down the window, partway.  “You have gas?”

The monster faced him.  It belched.  The putrid odor of spoiling gasoline wafted by in a noxious little cloud.

“You guzzled too much gas?” Jim asked.  The monster nodded miserably.  “Then maybe we can make a deal.”

But at this point Jim's imagination failed him.  What would an overindulgent gas guzzler want to trade for?

“I think he needs one of Mom's ant-acid pills,” David said brightly.

“Then hand one over,” Jim said.

Mary fished in her purse and came up with an ant-acid pill.  Jim offered it to the monster.  “This ant-acid pill for one tank of gas,” he said.  Could this possibly work?

The guzzler took the pill and gulped it down.  He belched again, this time not quite so awfully.  Then he lifted his tail.  Jim saw that the end of it looked somewhat like the nozzle of a gas pump.  “Right here,” he said quickly, turning off the motor, piling out of the vehicle, and going to the gas tank.  He removed the cap and pointed.

The guzzler put the tip of his tail into the aperture.  There was a liquid flow sound.  The fumes smelled like gasoline.

When the tank was full, the creature removed his tail and Jim put the cap back on.  “Thank you,” he said.

The monster nodded.  His gills were no longer green.

Evidently the pill had alleviated his condition.  So it was a fair bargain.

Jim climbed back in and started the motor.  Then he had another thought.  “We have taken the high road,” he said to Nimby.  “But it's pretty windy up there.  Is there a low road?”

Nimby pointed ahead.  Sure enough, there was a road following the ground.  Jim went for it.  “Thanks.”

For a time the road seemed routine.  Jim had a dark suspicion that it wouldn't last, but he enjoyed it while it did.  The motor was running well; the gasoline seemed to be good.  Which was a considerable relief.  So again he listened to the dialogue behind.

“How did you get here?” Karen asked Chlorine.  “I mean, you just came flying through the air, like a parachute.”

“With your skirt flying,” Sean added appreciatively.

“Oh, no!” Chlorine exclaimed, sounding appalled.

“Did my panties show?”

“No,” Jim called back, realizing by her reaction that this was a social nuance of some consequence.  Just as the centaurs were evidently quite open about their apparel, or lack of it, others might be quite uptight.  The children might not realize, and make a social blunder.  “Just your legs.”

And what legs they were!

“Oh, that's a relief!” she said.  “I would fade away from mortification if—but never mind.  The Good Magician had us use the cat-a-pult.”

“Now, why do I think that's not what we mean by the term catapult?” Sean asked musingly.

“I confess to being curious,” Chlorine said.  “Why do you think that?”

There was half a pause.  She had, innocently enough, set the brash teenager back.  “I, uh, mean that everything else is different.  With us a catapult is a big engine that hurls things far away.”

“Yes, that's it.  It's a giant cat whose tail springs up and hurls things where they need to go.  The Good Magician must have told the cat where to aim.  I'm glad there was a pillow to land on.”

“This Good Magician,” Mary said.  “He must be quite knowledgeable.”

“Oh, yes!  He knows everything.  I came to him to ask where my last tear was, and he told me, but then, of course, I had to perform a year's Service, or the equivalent.  So he assigned me to guide you folk safely out of Xanth.”

“You have certainly been a help,” Mary said.  “As was Sheila Centaur.  But did I hear you correctly?  You have to do a year's service, for the answer to a single question?”

“Oh, yes.  I was foolish, wasting my Question on something I could have figured out for myself.  But I really did it for adventure, and I'm getting that.  You folk—this traveling house—this is fantastic.”

David laughed.  “You think the RV is fantastic?  After getting hurled through the air by a giant cat?”

“Of course.  Lots of people use the cat-a-pult.  But I don't think there's ever been a wheeled house like this in Xanth before.  There aren't even many houses with chicken legs.  I couldn't ask for a better adventure.”