Chapter 1. Ghost Quest

Ivy was restricted, for no reason at all, to Castle
Roogna, and of course it was overwhelmingly boring. Her
mother Irene had recently gotten quite fat in the tummy,
but kept right on eating and pretending it was wonderful
and didn't seem to have much time for Ivy any more. To
make things worse, her father King Dor had ordered a
baby brother for her. Ivy did not need or want a baby
brother. How could they have been so thoughtless as to
order something like that without consulting the one most
concerned? What good was a baby, anyway—especially
a boy?

But now the infernal thing had arrived, and Irene had
evidently celebrated by using a thinning spell, because
she was suddenly back to normal weight, but she still had
next to no time for Ivy. To heck and damation with all
cabbage leaves! Even drear Mundania, she decided, could
not be worse than this.

For a time, she played with the items sent by her pun-
pal, Rapunzel, who had very long hair and was similarly
confined to her castle. Ivy was still too young to read and
write, so they exchanged small objects, and that usually
worked well enough. But there was only so much a person
could do with puncils and hot-cross puns, and Ivy soon
tired of them.

She found herself watching the magic tapestry in her
room for hours on end and more hours sidewise; the idiot
cloth had become her amusement of last resort. Its moving
pictures showed everything that had ever happened in the
Land of Xanth. But the pictures were fuzzy, and she
wasn't much interested in history, anyway. It was so much

2                       Crewel Lye

more fun in the jungle, playing with clouds and tanglers

and gourds!

As the tapestry played over a sequence several hundred

years in the past. Ivy became aware of company. One of
the castle ghosts was in the room. In fact, it was watching

the tapestry.

Ghosts did not bother Ivy, of course; in fact, it tended

to be the other way around. Ghosts avoided her because
trouble seemed to follow only half a footstep behind her,
and the haunts of Castle Roogna, like others of their kind,
were basically settled creatures. So the presence of this
one surprised Ivy, yet hardly alarmed her. She peered at
it, but the outlines were fuzzy, and she could not make
out which one it was. So she asked, "Who are you?"

"Jordan," the ghost replied faintly. It was hard for
ghosts to speak with any volume, because their volume
was mostly vapor, but they could do it when they con-
centrated.

Oh, yes. Jordan was the one who had helped Mare

Imbri save Castle Roogna from the Horseman oodles of
time ago, before she arrived on the scene. "What are you

doing?"

"Watching my history." The ghost became clearer as

she concentrated on it, shifting from amorphous cloud
shape to humped sheet shape, which was an improve-
ment.

Ivy suffered a flicker of interest. " Your history? That's

Xanth history, silly!"

"I lived in Xanth four hundred years ago," Jordan said,

becoming a vague human form.

"Was it as dull as it is now?"

"No, it was exciting!" the ghost said with greater an-
imation than before. "It was a terrific adventure—I think."

"You think?" Ivy wanted to nail this down, because if
there was anything interesting in Castle Roogna, she

wanted to find it.

"Well, 1 died from it."
Oh. "I'm about to die from boredom," Ivy asserted.

"Oh, no," Jordan protested. "You're a Sorceress. You
will grow up to be King of Xanth."

Crewel Lye                       3

This was nothing new, but Ivy's interest increased.
Now Jordan was a fully formed man, partly white, partly
translucent, fairly large, young, and handsome. A white
lock of hair fell down partway over his right eye, which
was also white. Most ghosts were white; Ivy wasn't sure
why. "How did you die?"

Jordan shook his head. "I can't quite seem to remem-
ber. I've been dead a long time."

"But that's easy to remember!" Ivy exclaimed. "Dying
is a big deal, like getting born."

"Do you remember getting born?"

"Of course not. Animals get born. / was found under
a cabbage leaf. I should have kicked over the cabbage
behind me, because now they've found Dolph under it
and they're making him my baby brother." She pouted,
as the memory rankled. "If I'd been smart, I'd have
sneaked out at night and thrown all the cabbages into the
moat before Dolph arrived. It's probably all his fault I'm
grounded."

"Yes, boys are a lot of trouble," the ghost agreed.
"Almost as much trouble as girls."

"What?"

The ghost drifted away from her, realizing that he had
said something provocative and unwarranted. Everybody
knew that boys were much worse than girls. But Ivy de-
cided to forgive him his transgression, because even
ghostly company was better than none. "Tell me the ad-
venture of your life."

"Well, I don't quite remember that, either. I know it
was exciting, and that there were monsters and magicians
and swords and sorcery and beautiful women, but the
details have fogged out."

"Then how do you know your life is playing on the
tapestry now?" Ivy asked alertly.

"I recognize bits of my life when I see them played.
Fighting a dragon, kissing a woman—it begins to come
back. I know I was there."

"Fighting a dragon?" Ivy asked. "Not the Gap Dragon?"
"I think I avoided that one," Jordan said. "It's alive
today, isn't it? So I couldn't have slain it."




4                       Crewel Lye

"Good." Because the Gap Dragon had become Ivy's
friend, she didn't want anything bad to have happened to
him, even four hundred years ago. The Gap was now
being patrolled by Stacey Steamer, the female of his kind.
Eventually Stanley would grow up and return to the Gap,
but that was long ago in the future and she didn't worry
about it. "Who'd you kiss?"

The ghost concentrated. "Several beautiful women, I
think, but the last was most. There was a cruel lie, and
I died. So I hate her. But I found a better woman after I
died, so maybe it's all right after all."

This was getting downright fascinating! "How can you
find a woman after you're dead?"

"A dead woman, naturally. A ghost, like me."

Ivy had always known the ghosts of Castle Roogna,
but hadn't thought to question them about their lives.
"What happened to her?"

"She's still here, of course. She's Renee."

"Oh, Renee! I hear her singing sometimes. Faint, sad
songs."

"Yes, she is often sad. But she's a wonderful person.
If I were alive again, I'd marry her."

"Silly, ghosts can't live again!" Ivy chided him.

"What about Millie?"

Millie the Ghost had been a resident of Castle Roogna
for eight centuries, until restored to life. She had married
the Zombie Master and now had twin teen-aged children,
Hiatus and Lacuna, who on occasion baby-sat for Ivy.

"That was prehistoric," Ivy said shortly. "Back when
Good Magician Humfrey was still practicing as an old
man. He helped bring her back to life. Everybody knows
that. But Magician Humfrey isn't animating ghosts any
more, and nobody else knows how. How can you live
again?"

"Well, my talent is healing," Jordan said. "So if my
bones were found and brought together, maybe—"

"Where are your bones?"

"I've forgotten, if I ever knew," the ghost confessed,
abashed.

Crewel Lye                       5

So Jordan represented a mystery. Ivy was now fully
intrigued. "This cruel lie—what was it?"

Jordan spread his hands. "I don't remember that, ei-
ther. I thought if I watched it replayed on the tapestry,
maybe—"

"Why not," Ivy agreed. They focused on the tapestry.
It showed a towering wall of rock, the face of an almost
vertical cliff. Down this cliff a huge snail was crawling—
and a man clung to the snail's shell.

"Oh, yes, the snail," Jordan said. "That's me, riding
it."

Ivy had never thought of snail-riding, but of course she
had never encountered a snail big enough. "Where are
you going?"

"I don't remember, but it was somewhere I had to get
to."

"Why are you riding it, instead of walking there your-
self? That snail's pretty slow."

"I don't remember that, either. But I think I had no
choice. Maybe if we could see more detail—"

They peered closely, and the picture enhanced itself
somewhat, as things did when Ivy paid attention to them.
They made out a shadow, as of some monstrous bird, but
they could not tell where the cliff was or how extensive.
The progress of the giant snail was tediously slow; it was
evident they would have to wait for an hour to see sig-
nificant progress. That was the problem with the tapestry;

it ran scenes through at regular speed. It was possible to
reset it, but that tended to jump the picture to some quite
different scene, and the original one could be lost for days.
So it was necessary simply to let it play through at its
own rate if a person wanted to see how a particular scene
ended. This was no good for a bored child.

But Ivy's curiosity, once fairly aroused, did not accept
denial. "We must find out," she declared. "I want to know
all about that snail—and your life, and especially about
the cruel lie." She put her hands on her hips, in the manner
her mother did, to show the severity of her resolve.

"I'm sure I could remember, if the pictures were
clearer," Jordan said.

6                       Crewel Lye

Ivy contemplated the tapestry. "It's gotten sort of
grubby over the centuries," she said. "And I guess my
using it to wipe off my hands before dinner doesn't help
much, either." Adults always had these pointless rules
about clean hands for eating, so Ivy knew it really wasn't
her fault, but now she wished she had wiped her hands
somewhere else. "Maybe if we can clean it off, it will
have better pictures."

They tried. Ivy fetched a bucket and water, but found
she couldn't scrub the tapestry clean. The pictures were
permanently dull, even when wet. "We need something
better to clean it," she said, frustrated.

They tested everything they could think of, but nothing
helped. Ivy was getting dangerously close to annoyance,
which was another mood she had inherited from her
mother. But she was determined to find a way. "Good
Magician Humfrey would know, 'cept he's pretty young
now," she said. "Still, he's probably better than nothing."

But how was she to get to the Good Magician's castle
when she wasn't allowed out of Castle Roogna? Certainly
her folks wouldn't take her there right now! Not when
they were so confoundedly absorbed with the idiotic new
baby. But she just couldn't wait till she was ungrounded;

that would be forever or three more days, whichever was
longer.

Fortunately, Jordan had a notion. "There's an old night
mare shoe in the cellar," he said. "With that you could
get in and out of the gourd."

Ivy clapped her hands, delighted. The gourd had turned
out to be a pretty interesting place, but the problem of
getting out of it made her cautious. She hadn't realized
that it was the horse shoes that enabled the night mares
to do it, but of course that made sense. One of the mares
must have lost a shoe when trying to flee an awakening
sleeper, because night mares were never supposed to be
seen by awake folk. "Show me!"

Jordan guided her down to the cellar crevice where the
shoe lay, and Ivy pulled it out. The thing was made of
old rusty metal and was bent in the shape of a U; no

Crewel lye                       7

wonder the mare had left it behind. "Ooo, ick!" Ivy ex-
claimed, shaking the gook off it. "How does it work?"

"You have to go into a gourd," Jordan said. "Then you
travel through the gourd world until you come to one
that's near your destination, and—"

"I know that, dummy! I mean how do I get ('«?"

"The mare shoe should make the rind pervious, so—"

"Where's a gourd?" Ivy was edgy and impatient be-
cause she was getting nervous about this business, so she
was rushing things before she could make the mistake of
thinking about the matter sensibly.

"There's one growing at the castle wall," Jordan said.
"It's not supposed to be there, but it's hidden, so no living
person has spotted it yet."

"Take me to it," Ivy ordered. She had to go somewhere
fast, for her knees were threatening to knock. The gourd
world was, after all, the place of bad dreams, and she
suspected there were more hideous things in there than
the night mares ever let ordinary people see.

Jordan took her to it. It was just outside a large crevice
at ground level. She reached through, caught hold of the
vine, and hauled the gourd in. "But don't look at the
peephole!" the ghost warned.

"I know." Ivy had learned about peepholes recently;

it seemed her mother had been perturbed to learn that
Grandpa Trent had been into one and somehow had
thought it was Ivy's fault. Possibly the grounding had
something to do with that. "Now how does—?" She ex-
tended the bent shoe toward the gourd.

"Wait!" Jordan cautioned, in the manner adults had.
"I think you need a map, to—"

The shoe touched the surface of the gourd—and sank
in. Ivy, expecting resistance, lost her balance and fell
forward. Her arm passed in and the rest of her did too,
though the gourd was much smaller than she was. Sud-
denly she was inside and falling.

She started to scream, but before she could work it up
properly, she landed on something soft. It was a huge
marshmallow. So she filed the scream away for later ref-

8                       Crewel Lye

erence, got up, and looked about. This wasn't nearly as
bad as she had feared.

She was in a candy garden. Lollipops grew from the
ground, and the weeds were licorice. She started to pick
a pop, then hesitated; she was inside the gourd. If she ate
anything, would she be able to leave? She wasn't sure;

the gourd had funny rules. So she exerted supreme control
well beyond the call of little-girl duty and left the candy
alone. She had a feeling she would regret this the rest of
her life, but she couldn't take the chance.

The night mares traveled through Xanth by going in
one gourd and out another; there was always a gourd close
by a sleeper who needed a bad dream. She had gone in
at Castle Roogna; she needed to come out at the Good
Magician's castle. But where was it?

Jordan was right; she needed a map—and she didn't
have one. Well, she would just have to find her own way.

She walked down the hard chocolate path, past all the
delicious-looking and -smelling confections, her mouth
watering painfully, until she came to a house made of
wood. She knocked on the door, but there was no answer
except a faint chittering. So she turned the knob, opened
the door, and stepped inside.

The door swung closed behind her. Suddenly the chit-
tering became loud. Things rustled over her feet. As her
eyes adjusted to the interior gloom, she discovered that
the room was filled with insects. "Ooo, ugh!" she ex-
claimed with girlish distaste. "This is a bug-house!"

Indeed it was. Bugs of every description crawled on
the floor, the walls, the ceiling, and the door behind her.
Others fluttered in the air. One bug-eyed monster buzzed
up to her, waving its purple antennae.

Ivy used the scream she had saved. She tried to use
the mare shoe to fend off the bug, but the shoe missed
and struck the wall instead. Shoe and hand sank through
the wall, and Ivy stumbled after, stepping through as a
ghost might.

She blinked in bright sunlight. She stood on a beach,
just outside a gourd. Across the water she saw a large
island, and near the island was a raft with a centaur stand-

Crewet Lye                       9

ing on it. That must be Centaur Isle, down at the south
of Xanth. She had come a long way!

But that wasn't where she was going. So she nerved
herself and touched the mare shoe to the gourd. She was
getting the hang of this. She fell right into the bug-house

again.

Hastily she opened the door and plunged outside. She

remained in the gourd, since she hadn't used the shoe
this time. But now the garden was not candy; it had
changed radically for the worse. Awful spinach grew all
about, along with turnips and radishes and onions and
other terrible stuff, the kind that existed only to nauseate
children at mealtimes. There were even—horrors!—cab-
bages. She held her nose and hurried along the garden
path until it came to a lake of placid, brownish fluid.

What could this be? Surely not anything worse than
mashed squash! She touched her finger to it and tasted a
drop, her curiosity leading her unerringly into mischief.

Instantly she spat it out. This was the worst yet! It was
castor oil—the stuff used to lubricate rolling castors, the

bane of all children.

She looked about. How could she get out of the gourd
for another peek at real-life Xanth? She might be close
to Humfrey's castle, and didn't want to pass it by. But

with no walls to touch—

Then she had a notion. Carefully she touched the mare
shoe to the surface of the stinking oil lake. It sank through,
drawing her along with it. She held her nose and her
breath, closed her eyes tightly, and passed painlessly
through the surface to come to rest on firm ground. She
opened her eyes and found herself standing in front of a
gourd in sight of the Good Magician's castle. She had
nerved herself to take the most obnoxious route, which
naturally was the proper one, and she was there!

Well, almost. There was the little matter of getting in.
She was standing outside the moat; there was no draw-
bridge, and the walls looked most forbidding.

First she had to cross the moat. She looked around.
Under a spreading tree she found several small stones.
"Stepping stones!" she exclaimed, recognizing the type.




10 Crewei lye

She picked them up, but they were hard to hold all
together, so she reached for a big green leaf to wrap them
in. But !o, it was not a leaf; it was the wing of a giant
luna moth. The creature was motionless, and just dangled
when she picked it up; she realized reluctantly that it was
dead. A tear squeezed from her eye; she hated to see
pretty things die.

She found some blanket moss, set the stones, moth,
and mare shoe on it, and carefully drew up the corners
of the blanket so she could carry it as a bundle. She saw
herself as a fairly resourceful child, so of course she was.
Then she walked to the moat, held the bundle in one arm,
and used her free hand to cast the first stone.

The steppfng stone plopped onto the surface, hobbled,
expanded somewhat, and settled firmly, the top of it just
above the water. She tossed a second one a little farther
out, and it settled similarly on the surface. When she had
a somewhat irregular line of several—for stepping stones
never settled regularly, no matter how accurately they
were placed—she stepped carefully on the first. It gave
slightly but supported her weight; that was, after all, its
nature, enhanced by her talent. Incorrectly placed, a step-
ping stone could become a stumbling block, but she had
set these down properly.

She stepped on the second, and the third, then tossed
out a couple more. This was nervous business, especially
when she stepped across deep water, but she had enough
stones and she made it all the way across with one to
spare. That was excellent management, if she did say so
herself.

Now she was on a narrow bank between the moat and
the castle wall. On one side, the bank narrowed until there
was no space between the wall and the water, so she
couldn't go there. On the other side, it curved around the
castle. She was sure there was a door somewhere, so she
started walking.

She passed an alcove that was absolutely dark; no light
penetrated its depths at all. That was interesting, but not
very; she moved on. Then she rounded a corner and en-
countered bunding brightness. She shaded her tender eyes,

Crewel Lye                      11

but the light squeezed through the crevices between her
fingers and pierced her eyelids anyway. It was just too
bright!

She retreated around the comer, and the day returned
to normal, with only a dull red spot that played tag with
her peripheral vision. How could she pass that region? If
the door she wanted was there, she would be unable to
see it. She might even blunder into the moat and get her
feet all wet; that would be awkward to explain to her
mother! Irene might have no time for Ivy when Ivy wanted
attention, but she would appear like magic the moment
those little feet and shoes got wet; that was the way mothers
were. Also, Ivy wasn't sure just how fast her sight might
recover, after too great an exposure to that light; how
awful it would be to be blind! If she came home blind,
they would feed her nothing but—screaming horrors!—
carrots, because they had a magic yellow ingredient that
was good for vision. There was no question about it: she
had to find a different way.

"Come on. Ivy," she chided herself. "You're smart
enough to figure out how to get through a little light!"
Whereupon she became smart enough; confidence was
wonderful stuff, especially when abetted by magic.

Ivy returned to the dark alcove and reached inside.
Sure enough, there was a dark lantern. She brought it out,
and its darkness spread all around her, converting day to
night. Fortunately, she was able to see a little dim light
ahead, around the comer, and she headed for that.

As she rounded the comer, the effulgence surrounded
her—and was met by the darkness radiating from the dark
lamp. The two struggled and canceled out, and an ap-
proximation of normal daylight returned. A small globe
of darkness remained about the lantern itself, into which
her arm disappeared, while the bright lantern remained
too bright to gaze upon. But in between were the shades
ranging from night to day. If Ivy had been of a more
philosophical bent, she might have realized that life itself
was like that, with the impossible extremes of good and
bad at either side and many gradients between, through
which normal folk navigated with indifferent success. But

12

Crewel Lye

Crewel lye

13

she was as yet too young for such a thought, so she shoved
it aside and proceeded through the shades of gray until
she rounded another corner. Then the dark lamp became
too dark, blotting out everything; she set it in an empty
alcove and went on.

But a new threat materialized. A small winged cat
screeched and circled above her. When she tried to take
a step, the cat circled lower, claws extended. This was
too little to be a cat-bird; it was a kitty-hawk, and it would
not let her pass.

She looked in her blanket bag, where there was one
stone, the dead moth, and the mare shoe. She might throw
the stone at the creature, but she doubted she could score;

the throwing arm of a five-year-old girl wasn't strong. So
she left that stone unturned. She needed another way.

As she pondered, the kitty-hawk circled lower. Ivy was
right at the edge of its attack range and the creature hes-
itated. Probably it didn't want to get too close to the
brilliance around the corner, as that would blind the kitty-
hawk as readily as it blinded her. So this was a safe place
to pause.

Ivy watched the creature, noting the separate com-
ponents of its body. The hawk-wings were of the bird
kingdom, with brown feathers, and there was a feathered
tail to match; the head and legs were of the cat kingdom,
with white teeth and claws. She wondered which kingdom
was dominant. Did the creature lay eggs or give live birth?
Animals had more direct and crude ways of reproducing
themselves than people did; maybe cabbages didn't grow
for animals. She blushed to be thinking such naughty
thoughts, but still, she was curious. She knew that some
creatures birthed and others hatched, or maybe it was the
other way around, and people arrived under cabbage
leaves, and then there was the matter of the storks—

Ivy frowned, because that reminded her of Baby Brother
Dolph again. Too bad the stork hadn't brought him, be-
cause then there would have been a chance of dropping
the bundle into a nest of cockatrices, or maybe onto a
bad-tempered needle-cactus. She could almost see the
needles flying out, striking the littlecockatrices, who nat-
urally glared balefully about, turning everything around
them to sludge. Or was it stone? Anyway, the little bird-
brained lizards were getting stabbed by flying stone
needles, and it served them right.

Ivy caught a flicker of something just off the edge of
her vision. It looked like a swishing horse's tail. The day
mare! Imbri had brought her the nice, violent day-dream,
but now the mare had to gallop off to her next delivery.

There was a yowl. Ivy looked up. The kitty-hawk had
come quite close to her and was having some kind of
problem. The parts of it had intensified, the cat-head and
feet becoming more feline and the bird-wings and tail more
avian. Now they were fighting for dominance. The head
was reaching around to bite at the wings, and the wings
were pounding on the head.

Ivy watched closely, so of course the intensification
of separate qualities continued. The fight got worse.
Feathers and tufts of fur flew out. Finally the kitty-hawk
spun out of control, crashed into the moat, and was gone.
This was one experiment of nature that didn't seem to
have worked out. The sharpening of its facets, as it had
approached Ivy and her violent day-dream, had caused
the creature to fragment and destroy itself.

Ivy walked on, glad to be past the kitty-hawk but sad
how that had happened. She was still looking for the door
into the castle. She came to a small plot that contained a
single headstone. It was in the shape of the head of an
old man, with sparse stone-gray hair and white whiskers.
It looked almost alive, and became more so as she con-
templated it; its stony gaze was fixed on her. Slowly one
mineral eye closed in a wink.

"You are alive!" she exclaimed, startled.

"No, snippet, I'm just cold stone," it said. "I take the
form of the head of whoever is buried near me. That is
my nature; I'm a headstone."

"You mean you look like—" she began, glancing at
the oblong of dirt in front of it.

"Exactly, peanut. Like the loudmouthed old man who
is buried here." Actually, he sounded to Ivy like a loud-
mouthed goiem, but maybe all loudmouths were similar.




14 Crewel Lye

"That's interesting," Ivy said. This headstone didn't
seem like much of a threat.

"Last year I was planted near a lovely, dead, young
woman; you should have seen me then! My surface was
like polished alabaster, and my shape was beautiful."

"That's nice," Ivy said, losing interest. "I've got to go
now."

"Ah, but if you try to pass me, I'll yell, and you'll get
the brush-off," the headstone warned.

"Oh, pooh!" she said. "You can't do anything, rock-
head!" She walked on defiantly.

"Intruder alert!" the headstone yelled loudly. "Undis-
ciplined child! Probably a real brat! Give her the brush-
off!"

From around the castle flew the most awesomely ter-
rible object Ivy could imagine: a huge hairbrush. She
scooted back the way she had come, covering her behind.
That headstone hadn't been bluffing!

Ivy backed up against the wall so that her tender pos-
terior wouldn't be exposed. What was she to do now?
She couldn't face that—or turn her back on it, either.

The brush hovered a moment. Then, spying no naughty
posterior, it flew back the way it had come. Ivy relaxed;

she had escaped this time.

But she knew with sick certainty that the moment she
passed the headstone again, it would cry another warning
and that horrendous brush would return. She was stuck.
She was a fairly self-assured little girl, but that brush—!
She had to figure out a way to be rid of it!

Then she had another notion, for her mind was filled
with notions, some of them almost as cute as she was.
Suppose she nullified the headstone instead? If she could
just stop that loudmouth from blabbing, somehow silenc-
ing it-
She looked in her bag again. Maybe she could get cre-
ative. Stone, mare shoe, dead moth. Nothing here to—

Then a creative bulb lit up, for an instant flashing as
brightly as the brightside effulgence she had so recently
negotiated with the dark lamp. Yes, there was a way,
maybe!

Crewel Lye                      15

She marched up to the headstone. "Hi, rockbrain!" she
said boldly.

The stone eye eyed her stonily. "You again, twerp? If
you try to pass this point, I'll see that you get the brush-
off for sure. You won't be able to sit down without blis-
tering the chair!"

"I've got something for you," she said, taking out the
dead luna moth. "Let me just scrape out some dirt beside
you here—" She dug a little hole.

"That doesn't look like much," the headstone said. "If
you dig too deep, you may encounter something you don't
like, sweetie-pie."

"I just want to bury this closer to you than that," Ivy
said and dropped the dead moth in the hole. Then she
swept the dirt over and patted it firm.

She stood and watched. If what the headstone had told
her was true—

It was. The headstone began to change. The human
features weathered into anonymity and assumed a green-
ish cast. Then a new form took shape. It was the head of
a luna moth, with furry antennae and lovely color.

"That's very pretty," Ivy said and walked on by.

The stone-moth's antennae waved frantically, but there
was no sound, for moths did not make sounds in the
human range. The giant brush was not roused, and Ivy
passed the dread region without hindrance. She had nav-
igated the final hurdle, thanks to her creativity. She had
used a dead moth in a way no one had thought of before.

She walked around to the castle door and pushed it
open. A young and pretty woman came to meet her. "Why,
hello, Ivy—you surprised me. Why didn't you use the
carpet to fly in, as you usually do?"

Ivy didn't care to explain about being grounded; Zora
was very nice, but no adult could be completely trusted
in a matter like that. "This is business, Zora", she ex-
plained. "I have to see Good Magician Humfrey."

Zora shrugged. She was a zombie, but it was almost
impossible to tell, for no flesh fell from her. She had been
baby-sitting the Good Magician for two years because it
was her talent to make people age faster. She was married,

16                      Crewel Lye

but when she turned on her talent, other people became
nervous, fearing they were aging, too. Ivy didn't under-
stand why anyone should object to getting older; maybe
they had all forgotten what it was like to be a child. But
it seemed they did fear age, and the older they were, the
more they feared it. So Zora's husband Xavier tended to
absent himself when Zora turned on.

Ivy understood the practical aspects of all this, if not
the emotional ones, and wasn't worried. She often visited
the Good Magician herself, enhancing Zora's talent with
her own, so that Humfrey aged at several times the normal
rate. It would not be long, as such things went, before he
was an adult again; meanwhile, he seemed to be enjoying
his second childhood.

Zora escorted her to Humfrey's playroom. The Good
Magician was now about Ivy's size, which meant he had
averaged about three years for one, for he was small for
his age. "Hi, Ivy!" he said. "Come to put some more years
on me?"

"No, this is a business call," Ivy repeated. Humfrey
she had to trust, even if she didn't want to. He knew
everything anyway, or seemed to, that being his talent.
Physically, he was now a child, so perhaps would not be
inclined to betray her to the grown-ups. "I'm grounded
for no reason and had to sneak out."

Humfrey smiled in a too-knowing way. "No reason,
as you define it, being the leading of your grandfather in
a merry chase through tangler, jungle, and gourd, all be-
cause you didn't stay on course or heed his warnings,
and causing the Night Stallion to shoot fire from his nostrils
when he saw the damage to his haunted house set?"

"That's what I said," Ivy agreed uncomfortably. "No
reason at all. So let's make this quick, before I get in
trouble for even less reason if they discover I'm. gone. I
need an Answer."

"That will be one year's service," he informed her. "In
advance."

"Well, I've already added more than that to your life
by enhancing Zora when she ages you, so we're even.
And if I do it much more, you'll owe me another Answer."

Crewel Lye                      17

Humfrey stared at her belligerently. "What kind of
logic is that, woman?"

"Female logic, of course," she informed him. "Want
to make something of it?" Ivy already had a fair notion
how to handle men, even those who could not readily be
charmed.

"Um, no," Humfrey said. "Some distant day you're
going to be King of Xanth, may the Demon have mercy
on that day."

"I already know that, dummy, so watch your step."
She had learned about firmness from her mother, just as
she had learned about pedestals from her father. It would
never do to let any man get the upper hand. As Irene had
muttered ominously, there was no telling where he might
put it.

"Okay, okay, where's your Question?" Humfrey asked
grumpily.

"I need something to clean up the magic tapestry so
Jordan the Ghost can remember."

Another person might have had difficulty grasping this,
but Humfrey, young as he was, was the Magician of In-
formation. He had had over a century of experience be-
fore being accidentally youthened back to babyhood, along
with Stanley Steamer; now his power was returning, as
was his irascible nature.

Humfrey pondered a moment, then brightened. "The
Big Book should have it," he exclaimed. Ivy knew that
some people claimed there was no such thing as a Big
Book of Answers for all Questions, but those people had
never seen Humfrey's study. The Good Magician went
over to a table where a huge tome rested, and he scram-
bled up on the high stool to reach it. He turned the ancient
pages. "Good thing I've learned to read again," he grumped
as he pored over the fine print. "Tables... tadpoles...
tailspins... talismen... tangle trees... tapestry! Nature
of. History of, Present Location of. Abuse of—aha!
Cleaning of!"

"That's it!" Ivy exclaimed.

"Quiet, woman, while I'm researching," he snapped.

Ivy opened her mouth to retort suitably, but decided

18

Crewel Lye

Crewel Lye

19

to restrain herself until Humfrey produced the Answer.
Timing was important when dealing with men, as her
mother had said. Anyway, it was no insult to be called
"woman." She was glad he hadn't paused to read the entry
under "Abuse of" because that very well might mention
the wiping-off or laying-on of hands on its surface, which
would be awkward to explain.

"Use crewel lye," he read. "Recipe as follows: half a
tumbler of—"

"Wait, I can't remember a whole recipe!" Ivy pro-
tested. "I have trouble remembering the recipe for hard-
boiling an egg! I need a written copy—and no big words."
Ivy was learning to read, but preferred words like "Fun"
and "Joy" to ones like "Delinquent" or "Punishment."

Humfrey blew air through his cheeks, exactly as he
would when a century or so older. "Then fetch me that
copy-cat."

Ivy looked where he pointed. In a corner sat a creature
like a contracted caterpillar, with only four legs, one tail,
and several long whiskers. It looked rounded, furry, and
soft, but evinced an attitude of independence and aloof-
ness.

She went and tried to pick up the creature, but it sort
of slid through her hands and remained on its soft pillar.
She tried to haul it up by the tail, but its eyes glowed in
yellow slits, claws sprang out from its paws, and it yowled,
so she desisted. It certainly was a strange animal!

Then Ivy tried another system. She walked in front of
it. "Here, copy, copy, copy, copy!" she called. And the
copy-cat came, walking exactly the way Ivy was walking.

When they reached the table, she pointed to its surface.
"Jump, copy!" She jumped herself, to show how it was
done, and the copy-cat jumped. But it jumped just the
way she did, up and down on the floor.

So Ivy scrambled up on the table herself, to the Good
Magician's annoyance. "Up!" she called, and the copy-
cat scrambled up beside her.

"Don't stand on the pages!" Humfrey cried, grabbing
the copy-cat and plunking it down on the page. "Copy
that copy, cat."

The cat sat on the crewel lye recipe. It purred. In a
moment it opened its mouth and extruded its tongue, which
was a sheet of paper.

Humfrey tore off the paper—an act that startled Ivy—
and handed it to her. "There's your copy. Now go away."

Naturally, Ivy got ready to argue, but realized that she
wanted to go away, now that she had what she wanted,
so she kept silent. Sometimes the directives of men had
to be obeyed, when they chanced to be correct, annoying
as that was. She scrambled down off the table and left
the little Good Magician to his reading. He had become
entirely distracted by the text before him, which happened
to be taxidermy, while the copy-cat continued to extrude
copies of the crewel lye recipe. A copy fell down before
him, obscuring his text, at which he stared at the cat
speculatively. "Very interesting techniques here," Hum-
frey murmured. "I wonder—" but at that point the cat
hastily jumped clear of the text, not having the same in-
terest in studying, or in being a subject for, taxidermy
that Humfrey had.

The Gorgon greeted Ivy as she departed. The Gorgon
was an elegant, tau, veiled woman with snake hair, the
Good Magician's wife and the mother of Hugo, Ivy's
friend. "Won't you stay for a cookie, dear?" she asked.

Ivy started to decline, but the Gorgon produced the
biggest, loveliest, most aromatic punwheel cookie imag-
inable, and Ivy was overwhelmed. She realized that the
Gorgon was probably lonely for living female company,
so it would be only proper to visit for a while. She decided
to stay for one cookie.

In due time, Ivy returned to Castle Roogna with the
recipe, retracing her route through the gourd. No one had
missed her except the ghosts—which, of course, was part
of her problem. All anyone paid attention to these days
was the confounded baby. She'd like to drop him into the
peephole of a gourd, without the mare shoe!

But now she could clean the tapestry and get Jordan's
complete story. All she had to do was use the recipe to
make the cleaner. Fortunately, the ghosts knew where all
the supplies were. Ivy got a pot and some lye and some




20

Crewel Lye

fat and stuff and cooked them together according to in-
structions. The lye was strong stuff that tried to bum her
little hands, but the recipe told her how to be careful.
Jordan's friend Renee Ghost helped Ivy to read the more
difficult parts of the instructions, so that she made no
mistakes. She had to say several spells along the way, to
tune the lye into the crewel, but finally she had a bottle
of the elixir.

She got a sponge, soaked it with her lye mix, and wiped
it across the surface of the tapestry. The result was star-
tling. There was a swath of much brighter and clearer
images. The stuff was working!

Ivy went carefully over the entire tapestry until it fairly
shone. The moving pictures looked so real she almost
believed she could walk into them. "Oh, yes!" Jordan
exclaimed. "I can see every detail! The memories are
flooding back!"

"Now tell me your story," Ivy ordered him.

She settled back before the tapestry, watching, while
Jordan concentrated on the beginning of his story. With
Ivy's help, because the ghost could not make the tapestry
respond by himself, he got the correct sequence of pic-
tures to form. Then, as the pictures showed the action,
Jordan narrated the story as he remembered it. He skipped
over the dull parts, such as sleeping, and lingered on the
good parts, such as fighting monsters and kissing fair
maidens and encountering strange magic. It was a genuine
tale of Swords and Sorceries and Goods and Evils and
Treacheries, and Ivy was entranced. She loved tales with
guts. She watched and heard the caustic yarn as if she
were there herself. She thrilled to the Thud and Blunder
">f it and suffered fervently with the revelation t>f the Un-
Kind Untruth.

Chapter 2. Pooka

I believe it really started when I came of age. It
was the fashion in those days for a young man to prove
himself by indulging in some fantastic exploit; then he
could marry and settle down, having earned his fame.

I had a wonderful girlfriend, Elsie, who could turn
water into fine wine just by touching it with her little
finger, and she was pretty and sensible, and she wanted
to get married and start a family right away. I just wasn't
ready for that yet; it sounded so dull. I wanted adventure!

This was getting very difficult. Elsie really wanted me
to stay, and she didn't care about heroic tradition, and
she was certainly attractive. We were having some awk-
ward scenes. I promised her that, after I had my adventure
and became a hero, I would return to her, but this was
really a lie, because we both knew I would never get tired
of adventure. She promised me that, after we started a
family, she would let me go out and travel in Xanth and
maybe slay a dragon or two, but we both knew that was
also a lie, for a family never lets go of a man. I wanted
to sow my wild oats first; that way I would be sure of
them.

Elsie really wasn't very keen on wild oats; I'm not sure
why. So finally we made a deal: Elsie would have one
night to show me how nice tame oats could be and dem-
onstrate the advantages of family living, to persuade me
to stay. If she couldn't, then I would travel. It seemed
fair enough.

Little did I know what kind of night she planned! I was
really pretty naive in those days and knew a lot less about
a lot of things than I thought I did. I supposed she was
21

22

Crewel Lye

going to feed me good food and treat me well and talk to
me convincingly about the advantages of the settled life.
Instead she—well, I'm not sure I should say much about
this to—in fact, I think we'd better just skim the pictures
on past that night and—No? But I could get in trouble
with your folks if I said too much about—well, all right,
I'll describe just a little of it.

Elsie met me wearing a gown that—well, I had known
she was pretty, but hadn't quite realized how pretty she
could be when she really tried. I found myself staring at—
at the way she breathed. And the way she sat. Then she
took me inside her, uh, bedroom, and I followed her and
found myself staring at the way she walked. Then she—
this is really pretty dull, so maybe we should skip this
scene—No? Um, well, she showed me how to send a
message to the stork, and I agreed that this was all the
adventure I ever needed, and we finally fell asleep.

But in the morning I remembered about the other type
of adventure, exploring strange places and fighting strange
creatures, and I knew I had to try that first. Elsie was
still asleep, half smiling, and I felt really terrible as I
dressed and buckled on my sword. But I didn't even kiss
her; I just sneaked out of the house like a grounded child
and started walking south, toward the center of Xanth,
where the real action was supposed to be.

Guilt followed me like a lowering cloud, because my
promise during the evening had turned out to be another
cruel lie, and I almost turned back again. But the lure of
the adventurous wilds drew me on and it was stronfer
than my guilt.

Somehow I didn't feel very bold or heroic at the mo-
ment. I felt more like a coward, for I had not had the
courage to wake Elsie and tell her honestly, "I'm going,
gal, sorry about that." She Would have—well, women
can be very difficult about that sort of thing. And once I
was fairly on my way, I lacked the courage to return and
apologize. Some heroes aren't very courageous or heroic

inside.

But now I was committed and I had to look forward
instead of back. Already I had learned a lesson of life:

Crewel Lye                      23

that the sweetest, saddest thing is what-might-have-been.
I suspected I was doing wrong and would pay some hid-
eous price for it, but still I kept doing it, ashamed to
confess that wrong.

The wilds of Xanth were wilder in those days than they
are today, I think, and many strange creatures and magics
existed that no longer exist today. The plants had not yet
learned the proper respect for man, and the dragons came
even to our village of Fen to gobble people. That was
why we had a warrior tradition; we needed bold young
men to fend off stray monsters. We were near the north-
east border of Xanth, beside what was later to become
known as the Ogre Fen, but at that time the ogres were
far away, still migrating clumsily northward. My boots
tended to bog down in the interminable reaches of the
fen, and I soon realized that it was a long way to the heart
of Xanth, where the fabulous Castle Roogna stood. It
would take me forever or so to get there by foot, and I
found I really didn't like walking. I needed a ride.

That was a problem. There weren't any centaurs in
our isolated region of Xanth, and dragons did not make
good steeds—they tended to conspire to carry their pas-
sengers inside their bodies instead of outside—and I was
afraid to fly with a flying creature; never could be quite
sure where one of those might drop you off. I knew there
were sea-horses in the sea, but I was trekking inland.
There was a man in Fen Village who made hobby-horses,
but I hadn't thought to cheek with him before starting off.
In any event, his horses didn't really carry people, they
just seemed to. What was I to do?

I knew what: I had to toughen my legs so I could walk
all day without getting so fatigued that I lost the pleasure
in the adventure. So far, adventure wasn't really much
fun. There was a lot to be said for staying home and
starting a family. I almost turned about—but again found
I could not. To turn back then, I would have to admit my
error—that I had been wrong to leave Elsie. That was
more difficult to do than fighting a dragon. If I had not
been wrong, I think I could have turned back; but since
I was wrong, I could not do it.

24

Crewel Lye

I think now, after four hundred years as a ghost to
reflect on philosophical matters—ghosts are better with
intangibles than they are with tangibles, because they are
intangible themselves—that women are more practical
than are men, and the reason that women have most of
the sex appeal is to enable them to lure men away from
the foolishness they are otherwise prone to seek. Cer-
tainly my adventure, when considered as a whole, was a
consummate exercise in folly, and would have been even
if it hadn't cost me my life. I could have had night after
night with Elsie; instead I courted—and won—disaster.
If vanity be the name of woman, folly is the name of man!

So I walked on—and fate came to me, undeserving as
I was. At first it didn't seem good, but that is often the
way of things. The bad seems good, like a pleasant path
leading to the tentacles and maw of a tangle tree, and the
good seems bad, like the pooka.

It was dusk, and I had scrounged up some sugar sand
and tapped a beer-barrel tree for beer, the true barbarian
beverage. My head was spinning pleasantly, detaching
my mind from my tired feet, when I heard the sinister
rattling of a chain. Now, I was young and foolish and a
coward about personal relations, but very little of the
physical world scared me. Yet this rattle did—and that
brought me alert. If that sound sent a cold shiver along
my spine, it had to be because it was meant to—and that
meant magic. Therefore I was intrigued, for strange magic
was part of what I sought. I had the sword; I needed the

sorcery.

I quickly got up, drew my sword, and stalked the rattle.
I heard it again, farther away, so I hurried to catch up.
But still it was distant, leading me through the wildest
and most desolate landscape. The trees were silhouetted
by fuzzy moonlight and looked like gnarled giants frozen
in place. But one was not frozen; when I brushed against
it, its tentacles grabbed for me, and I realized that I had
blundered into the clutches of a tangler, one of the most
fearsome vegetables ofXanth. So I slashed about me with
my blade, severing the tentacles, and the tree quickly let
me go. My sword was not magic, precisely, but it was

Crewel Lye                      25

good and sharp, and I wielded it well; I really did not fear
a tangle tree, either. To a barbarian, cold steel is the
answer to most problems and, you know, it's a pretty
effective answer. I suppose I might have felt otherwise if
my magic talent had been different; I actually could afford
quite a bit of foolishness.

After that, I realized that the rattling chain was only
leading me into mischief. I was playing its game. But I
remained intrigued by it; the sound had become a chal-
lenge, a minor adventure in itself. So I decided to get
smart and make it play my game.

I returned to my camping spot. Sure enough, the rattle
followed me, coming closer. But on the way I foraged in
the darkness for some rustleweeds and centipede grass,
and I set them at my place under a chocolate-smelling
cocoa-nut shell. Naturally they rustled and scrambled
faintly, so that it sounded as if a person were lying there
somewhat restlessly, as he would if disturbed by a rattling
chain. Then I sneaked silently away—I was good at that
sort of thing—and circled widely around behind the chain
rattle.

Sure enough, I fooled it. Barbarians are very cunning
about such things. I watched as it approached my camp-
site, wondering why I no longer spooked. Spooks don't
like to be ignored! It came over a ridge and I saw it in
silhouette against the moonlight—and it was a night mare.
No, not a mare, I realized after a moment, for several
reasons. The mares did not tease sleepers with distant
sounds; they came right in to deliver their bad dreams,
then trotted on to the next. They did not have time to
fool around, for there were many dreams to deliver. Be-
sides which, I wasn't asleep. And this was no mare; it
was a colt. Maybe a stallion. A shaggy, wild thing hung
with chains; that was how it rattled. It was, in fact, a
pooka—a ghost horse.

A horse. My barbarian brain began to percolate. I could
use that horse! But how could I catch it? I was sure that
it was at least halfway solid, because its chains rattled,
so they were solid, and it had to be solid enough to carry
them. But it could simply outrun me—which was one

26                      Crewel Lye

reason I wanted it. Not only would travel be easier with
a horse, but would be faster, and I would be able to carry
more. Besides, the challenge interested me; as far as I
knew, no one had ever captured a pooka before. So this
was exactly the sort of adventure I sought. Think of the
amazement if I rode back into Fen Village on a ghost
horse!

But I was very tired now; contrary to carefully fostered
myth, barbarians do get tired on occasion. It would be
better to get a night's rest and commence the pursuit in
the morning. On the other hand, the creature could be
long gone by then, so I didn't dare wait.

I sighed. It would have to be now. Fortunately, I was
a robust young man, so my fatigue was an inconvenience,
not a crippling thing. I organized for the chase.

First I used my sword to cut some supple long vines
to serve as rope for a lariat, since I wanted to capture,
not kill, this creature; that was a more difficult matter. I
wasn't sure it was possible to kill a ghost horse, but I
didn't want to take the chance. Naturally I had practiced
with ropes in the course of my preparations for herodom
and had a pretty good touch; it is one of the basic uncivi-
lized skills. Then I started off.

Of course the pooka realized almost immediately that
I was pursuing him; ghost horses are quite alert about
such things. With a rattle of chains, he took off. I could
not come close to matching his pace, but I could see his
hoofprints in the moonlight, and the continual clink of the
chains enabled me to follow him more readily by ear.

I plodded on, giving short shrift to whatever got in my
way. S didn't like traveling by night, for the only class of
menaces that is worse than that of the day-wildemess is
that of the night-wilderness. But maybe the night-horrors
realized that I was tired and irritable and not to be trifled
with, for none attacked me. Maybe I was just lucky. Some
fools have phenomenal luck, and of course they need it.

So I kept the clink of the chains just within audible
range, for the pooka had not expected me to persist in
the pursuit and kept pausing to forage. That confirmed
that it was solid; true ghosts didn't have to eat. At that

Crewel Lye                      27

point, in my mind, the pooka changed from "it" to "he."
It is a ghost; he is a living creature. I don't claim that this
was deep thinking on my part; it was just the way I saw
things.

I realized that the pooka had teased me simply because
I was there; it had been a chance encounter. Now I was
overreacting, and the ghost horse was uncertain. He didn't
know that I intended to capture him. He would stand for
a while in silence, thinking I would lose him without the
rattle; but I always walked directly toward the last chain
sound I had heard, using my unerring primitive sense of
direction. Inevitably he would move again. He couldn't
walk or run without those chains sounding off; that was
his curse. If this had not been the case, I never would
have been able to track him, either by night or by day.
At least, not so readily.

Morning dawned, and the pooka had led me generally
southwest. At that point, as the sun got ready to heave
itself up into the sky, he found a hidden thicket and froze.
I couldn't hear him and I couldn't see him, and the brush
was so thick I knew I would make so much noise searching
it that the pooka might escape, his chain clinks drowned
out. So I waited, and it became a siege. I knew he was
near, but had to make him move. And of course he was
determined not to move, having tired of this game.

I made good use of the wait. I snoozed. I really needed
that sleep!

But I woke instantly at the clink of the chain. The
pooka was trying to sneak out! He thought I was one of
the civilized sleepers who wallow so deep in dreams they
can't break free for six hours at a time. Not me! I knew
when I planned to go adventuring that I could never afford
to tune out the wilderness, so I had learned to wake the
moment anything threatened and to sleep again the mo-
ment the threat was gone. Wild creatures sleep that way,
and I was pretty wild myself. So that single little clink of
a link alerted me, and I unkinked my legs and set off in
renewed pursuit.

Now the pooka bolted. I followed, feeling better, though
I really hadn't had enough sleep. I had held the trail through




28

Crewel Lye

the night and gotten just as much rest as the pooka had.
I grabbed edible berries from bushes as I walked, feeding
myself; there again I had an advantage, for the pooka had
to pause to graze and could not do that while running.
He was probably getting really hungry now. I realized,
now that I thought about it, that anything solid enough
to carry heavy chains had to take in energy-food.

I passed a region where the bushes had twice as many
berries, for each was double. I was about to pop the first
twin-berries into my mouth when I hesitated. I had, of
course, familiarized myself with many natural things, so
that I could safely forage in the wilderness, but these were
strange. Something nagged; Something about twin-berries,
paired berries, double-berries—

I froze. Berry-berries! They were poisonous, causing
weakness, paralysis, and wasting away. But the effects
were slow, so that a person could eat a lot of them before
being affected—and that would be too late. Of course my
magic talent would protect me from serious damage, but
while it was acting, the pooka could have gotten away.
Better not to get into trouble to begin with!

However, I had a cunning primitive thought. I might
be able to use those berry-berries for my own advantage
sometime. So I harvested a number and put them in my
bag. I noticed there were no B's buzzing around the plants
that still had flowers; perhaps that had helped alert me.
B's stayed strictly away from berry-berries, so that the
berries could even be used as a B repellent.

Then I plowed on after the pooka, who obviously had
had the sense not to nibble on these berries. Had he led
me through here deliberately? I wasn't sure. Animals aren't
supposed to be too smart—but then neither are barbarian
swordsmen. Prejudices can be deceiving.

I came to hoofprints leading clearly to a line—and
beyond that line was nothing. Not a cliff, not a wall, just—
nothing.

Now, I always did get a little nervous about things I
didn't understand, such as marriage and family, and I
certainly didn't understand this. Was it magic? I had heard
of magic mirrors that a person could step into and be in

Crewel Lye                      29

the reverse land beyond, and I knew better than to look
into the peephole of a hypnogourd. But it looked as if the
pooka had crossed this line and disappeared, so it seemed
I would have to follow if I wanted to catch him. Then
again, those berry-berries—exactly how cunning was this
creature?

I decided to double-check. A little caution seldom hurts
anyone. Another myth about barbarians is that they charge
straight ahead heedlessly into danger; in truth it is the
ignorant civilized man, blundering in the jungle, who does
that. No barbarian ever walked blithely into a tangle tree!
Well, yes, I did do that at night, but that was a special
situation, and I had my sword ready.

I retraced the suspiciously clear hoofprints—and dis-
covered another set diverging behind some bushes. This
occurred on turf, where the traces wouldn't have been
visible to the average person, but of course I had a keen
wilderness eye. The pooka had walked up to the line,
stopped, then carefully backtracked, setting each hoof in
its own print, so as to make it seem he had crossed.

That was warning enough for me. I would not cross
that line! Later I learned how smart my decision was; the
line was the boundary of the Void, from which no creature
returned. The pooka had led me to a pretty trap indeed!

This, however, showed how clever an animal he was.
Now, more than ever, I wanted him for my steed. I fol-
lowed the new trail and soon spooked the ghost horse
back into motion. He had been standing in another thicket,
watching me approach. The devil!

Now I was twice as determined to capture him. I pur-
sued him with such determination that I hardly felt my
fatigue. When he paused, so that I could neither hear nor
see him, in some location where the trail was confused,
I paused too, napping; when he moved again, I moved.
I could tell he was getting nervous—and ravenous.

He was now fleeing southeast. This took me through
a pleasant region filled with birds of every size and de-
scription. Some of them were pretty big; in fact, I saw a
roc-bird circling overhead, but I wasn't too nervous be-
cause I knew I was too small to interest it. The pooka

30

Crewel Lye

was another matter, though; I saw the roc swoop down
and realized with horror that it was going for the ghost

horse.

Quickly I unslung my bow and charged forward. I
crested a ridge just in time to see the big bird lifting the
pooka in its claws. But the chains added to the weight of
the horse, off-balancing the bird, and it hesitated. Quickly
I loosed a shaft. It sped directly to the bird's feathered
rump. Of course, my arrow was no more than a little thorn
to a creature that size. But the thorn must have lodged
in a tender spot, because the bird let out an indignant, 0-
shaped squawk and dropped the pooka.

The pooka galloped away with a loud rattle and scooted
past a tangle tree where the roc couldn't follow. The big
bird screamed in fury—and oriented on me. Have you
ever seen an angry roc? You never want to! The thing
launched itself toward me, and its wings spread so wide
they blotted out the light of the sun. I raised my sword,
but I knew it was hopeless; this creature was simply too
big for me to fight.

The talons came down, grasping for me—but they were
so huge and spread so wide that they missed me; I passed
right through their mesh. Perceiving this, the roc grabbed
again, this time plunging its claws into the ground around
me. They hooked into dirt, rock, turf, and a medium-
sized tree and swept all up together, with me in the center.

I laid desperately about me with my sword as the bird
took off. I struck at the nearest talon, which was as thick
as my thigh, and severed it with a single mighty-thewed
blow. Blood spurted out of the artery in its center, and
the ground that talon had supported crumbled. Blood
soaked the divot, further weakening the structure. The
scooped-up tree fell through, and I tumbled through with
it. We plunged in a messy mass to the ground from the
height of a standing tree.

It was a bad fall, made worse by the gory dirt. I was
knocked half silly, and my condition was not improved
when several fair-sized rocks landed on me, crushing my
legs. I don't know how other heroes manage to escape
injury when caught in horrendous situations; certainly I

Crewel Lye                      31

had no such charm. I did the sensible thing—I lost con-
sciousness.

I recovered an hour later, my crushed leg healed. Oh,
didn't I mention this? My magic talent is healing myself.
If I am cut, it will seal up immediately if small, and in
minutes if large. If I lose a finger, it regrows. If I lose a
foot, it takes about an hour to regenerate. If I am killed
by an arrow through the heart, I will recover in a day.
Longer, if no one pulls out the arrow. So my crushed leg
was a job for an hour, and I was as fit as ever. Maybe
fitter, because the restored leg wasn't tired, the way the
other one was.

Evidently the big bird had left me for dead. That was
a natural mistake. Similar confusions had happened be-
fore. I was, in fact, practically indestructible in any per-
manent sense. That was one reason I liked adventure. I
had good magic for a hero.

So now I resumed the pursuit. The ghost horse hadn't
gone far. Thinking me out of it, he was grazing nearby.
Yes, he was hungry!

I yelled and bore down on him. He looked up, star-
tled—and reacted as if he'd seen someone risen from the
dead. Terrified, he took off, leaving half a munch of grass
to drop to the ground behind. One might think a ghost
horse would not be afraid of other ghosts, but that's not
so; even ghosts fear what they don't understand, and the
average ghost is a pretty timid creature. I ought to know!
And, of course, a pooka isn't a complete ghost, because
of that solidity; it's sort of in a halfway state, much the
way a zombie is halfway between life and death. If the
pooka ever slipped his chains, he'd fade into full spirit
status. But the chains hold him to life, so he must graze
and do most of the other things living creatures do, how-
ever inconvenient some of them may be. There are a
number of things like that in Xanth, neither this nor that,
but partaking of some of this and other of that.

The chase was on again. The pooka fled southeast—
and led me into griffin country. I could tell by the old
spoor, the claw marks on the trunks of trees, and the
griffin manure. I kept alert, for griffins can be aggressive

32                      Crewel Lye

creatures. I figured I could handle one griffin, but some-
times they traveled in prides, and that could be trouble.
The roc had left me because I was too small a morsel to
bother with, and it would have gotten dirt on its beak just
scooping up my body. But griffins would eat me, and I
wasn't sure how easy it would be for me to recover if
that happened. Maybe if one of them ate most of me, I'd
be able to collect myself together again—but I didn't care
to risk it. For one thing, injuries, hurt me just the same
as they do other folk, until they heal; why endure all that
pain if I didn't have to? So I was careful. Maybe barbar-
ians were supposed to laugh at scars as if they never felt
a wound, but the humor of that escaped me.

The pooka, hungry and tired, was less careful. He
charged right through a griffin-retreat, where there was a
big nest in a low-branching tree. A griffiness was on the
nest, incubating an egg or something—I'm not quite clear
on that aspect, as griffins are fussy creatures with royal
lineages and don't tolerate much snooping—and she let
out an awful squawk at this intrusion. The male griffin
had been snoozing on a branch up higher in the tree, his
wings folded while his claws gripped the bark. Startled,
he jumped right off the branch and plunged like a rock,
or maybe I mean a roc, before he spread his wings and
pulled out of the dive. He wasn't one bit pleased. I sus-
pect I wouldn't be, either, waking up like that, with a
woman screaming at me about some creature violating
her privacy. Maybe that's another reason I was wary of
marriage; like the boundary to the Void, it's apt to be a
one-way trip into who-knows-what.

It took only a moment for the male griffin to catch on
that the pooka had started this. He wheeled in the air and
swooped after the ghost horse, who had recovered sense
enough to gallop out of there at top speed. I followed as

fast as I could.

The pooka was fast, despite the chains, when he ran

full-out; but so was the griffin in flight, and he wasn't
carrying any extra weight. I think, if the pooka had been
fresh or had better running turf, he could have escaped.
But the ground was getting marshy here, and there were

Crewel lye

33

many trees, so the terrain hampered the ghost horse some-
what. The griffin was able to swoop efficiently around the
trees, so he gained.

The griffin pulled up above the pooka and pounced—
and I was too far away to do anything. I could only run
after them, and watch. Even if I had been within arrow
range, I'm not sure I would have used my bow, because,
if I killed the griffin, it would have left the griffiness alone
on her nest, unable to forage without leaving her egg or
whatever, and I really didn't like to do that. Meeting a
griffin in battle is one thing; messing up nesting arrange-
ments is another. Yes, I know this sounds foolish, but
you can't live in the wilderness long without developing
a solid respect for the creatures there. These griffins had
not been looking for trouble; the pooka had started it
because I was chasing him, which really made the whole
thing my fault. I can kill creatures when I'm right, but
not when I'm wrong. So I was really pretty well helpless,
regardless.

The griffin landed on the pooka's back, and his beak
pecked down—and struck one of the chains. Ouch! The
griffin, dazed by the pain, tried to fly up and couldn't,
because one of his claws was caught in another chain.

The pooka bucked, trying to throw off the griffin; the
griffin wanted to go, but could not. Then the pooka charged
under an overhanging branch, and that scraped the griffin
off, the hard way. He fluttered, turning over in the air,
and bounced on his back on the ground. Little stars and
planets of discomfort radiated out from him as he bounced.
He scrambled upright and took to the air again, unstead-
ily, trailing lingering squiggles of confusion and dismay.
He had forgotten about the pooka, who did not linger to
remind him. The griffin lurched back toward the nest-
tree, radiating evanescent wattles of sweat. One hardly
ever sees a griffin sweat! I ran on after the ghost horse.

The marsh grew marshier, as such things tend to do,
and my boots squished in it. I didn't like this, but had to
keep after the pooka. The ghost horse didn't like it, either.
He veered south, heading for higher ground, but it became
apparent that the mountains visible to the south were too

34                      Crewel lye

far away to do much good for some time. So he turned
west, and I followed, and we slogged up toward a bright
wall. Evidently this region was outside the pooka's nor-
mal range; he wasn't quite certain where he was going.

The closer we got to the wall to the west, the brighter
it became—and the worse the land got. Now it was a
virtual bog—and triangular colored fins appeared in it,
traveling at high speed. A green one came near me and
rose up out of the muck; I saw that it was a big fish with
a mouthful of teeth. The fish leaped at me, teethfirst, so
I whipped out my trusty sword and stabbed the creature

in the snout.

"Ooo, ouch!" the fish cried, plopping back into the

muck. "You didn't have to do that! All I wanted was to

loan you something."

1 didn't trust talking fish. "What did you expect in

return?"

"Only an arm and a leg," it replied.

"Well, I'm not interested, leave me alone, or—"
"That's what I'm trying to do! Leave you a loan. I'm

a loan shark."

"I don't care if you're a lone shark or a hundred sharks,

I don't want to see your green back near me! Take off,

or I'll lop off your fin."

The thought of losing its finback discouraged the fish,

and it swam rapidly away.

But the pooka was having more trouble. Three of the
fins, red, blue, and yellow, were circling him hungrily,
and he was mudded down in the bog. He slogged through
the slough toward the west wall. But now I could see that

it was a wall of fire. That was no good!

I forged toward him, waving my sword to scare away
the fish. "Move off," I cried at them, "Or I'll saw your
bucks in half." The fish hesitated, not wanting to expe-
rience this sawbuck. But the pooka saw my waving weapon
and was scared away himself. He plunged for the firewall.
"No, wait!" I cried. "I'm trying to help you!"

But he continued, more afraid of me than of either the
fins or the firewall, and soon he reached the latter. Now
the heat stopped him. He couldn't pass that fire, but the

Crewel Lye

35

fish hemmed him in behind. The red and blue fins were
spiraling closer; the yellow, more fearful, circled farther
out.

The pooka wrenched a forefoot out of the bog and
struck at the red fin, but the effort mired the other three
legs deeper. He was in real trouble! I shoved toward him,
and now he couldn't flee me. But I wasn't sure how I
could save him, let alone capture him.

The blue shark forged in at the pooka's side and tried
to take a bite; its teeth crunched on chains. I saw little
sparks fly up as enamel met metal; that must have hurt!
The fish retreated, but did not depart.

Now at last I got there. The pooka was afraid of me,
but so badly mired he couldn't move. "Look, Pook," I
said. "All I want is to ride you. When I get where I'm
going, I'll let you go. It's not a fate worse than death!
And death is what you'll get here. If you don't drown,
the sharks will skin you alive. Wouldn't you rather travel
with me?"

The pooka just looked at me as if I were halfway tetched.
I'm not sure he understood me. Animals vary in Xanth;

some are smarter than people, but most are not. Maybe
my voice reassured him, that and the fact that I wasn't
trying to kill him. Maybe he was just so mired he couldn't
budge.

The red fin launched itself at me. I chopped at it with
my blade, severing the fin from the body exactly as I had
warned the greenback I would, and this redneck swam
raggedly away. Now the water was red, too!

But the blood attracted more fins. From all over the
bog they converged, the colored light reflecting in what
someone in a less precarious situation might have con-
sidered pretty. "Pook, we're in trouble!" I said. I slogged
right up against him. He tried to flinch away from me,
but could not. I climbed on his back, and my weight
shoved him deeper into the muck. Then the first fin ar-
rived; I lashed at it with my sword and cut it off the fish.
Immediately six other sharks pounced on the wounded
one and tore it to pieces. An arm and a leg? These mon-
sters were out for anything they could get!




36                      Crewel Lye

Another came at us, and I served it likewise—and so
did its companions. And a third. Supported as I was, I
could reach a full circle with my sword. Not one fin got
close enough to bite before being severed. Soon the muck

around us was a morass of gore.

After a time, so many sharks had been eaten that the
remaining ones were gorged. The circle of fins widened
and fell apart; they were no longer interested in us. As I
have said, brute force and swordplay may not be the
answer to every problem, but there are times when they

' are good enough.

The pooka was now up to his shoulders in muck. Be-
fore long the stuff would reach his head, and he would
drown in dirty blood. I had to do something!

"Look, Pook," I told him. "I'm on your side. I want
to help you. I saved you from the fins. I helped you escape
the roc and the griffin before. Now I've got to get you
out of here—but I don't know how. So I'll try to find a
way. You just hang on here. I'll be back as soon as I can;

keep your chin up." I dismounted and stood in the muck

beside him.

Well, could I pull his feet out, one by one? I reached

down along one hind leg, gripped it as deep as I could,
and hauled. It did not come up; I sank down. That was

no good.

I looked at the firewall. It was not as hot as I had first

thought, and I could see vague shapes through it. Was it

thin? I decided to find out.

I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, ducked under
the bloodwater, and pushed toward the firewall. When I
hoped 1 had gone far enough, I came up—and found
myself in a burned-out forest. The firewall was behind
me, and evidently the fire had recently left this spot. But,
strangely, green shoots were already appearing on the
charred trees. They were burned but not dead.

To the west, the muck soon dehydrated into a baked
flat, dried out by the fire. The pooka would be able to
walk here—if he could get across the firewall. Well, I
had done it; he could use the same device, ducking under
the water. If he could unmuck enough to move.

Crewel Lye

37

He would need help. I contemplated the smoldering,
sprouting trunks and had a notion. I could haul him under!

1 ducked under the firewall again and came up in the
bloodbath. There was the pooka, unchanged, except a
little deeper mired. He was keeping his chin up; he had
to, to keep his nose clear of the bloodstream that sur-
rounded him.

"I need a chain," I said. I put my hands on one of the
chains that wrapped him and tugged at it. The thing was
tied in, with no free end. I wondered who had fastened
these chains on him and why, but this was not the time
for idle speculation. Many things in Xanth don't have
sensible explanations anyway; they just are.

"I'll have to do this the hard way," I said. "Steady,
now." I stretched out a loop of chain so that it projected
into the water beside him, then hefted my sword, lifting
it above my head with both hands and bringing it down
ferociously.

The pooka neighed with terror, but was unable to flinch
away. Then the blade caught the loop of chain and sliced
through it. I had a good sword; it had been dipped in
dragon's blood, and so the blade was magically hard and
sharp and could cut through almost anything.

I took one of the severed ends, passed it down around
the muck-buried barrel of the ghost horse, and drew it up
on the other side. I kept working, unraveling the chain
until 1 had what I needed. Then I made sure the rest was
securely anchored about the barrel and forelimbs of the
animal, so it could not slip free.

"Now, Pook, I'm going to haul you under the firewall,"
I said. "To get you out of this mess. But you'll have to
help. When you feel the pull, try to walk with it; you
should be able to, with that help. When you reach the
firewall, get your body as close to it as possible, duck
your head down under it so you won't get burned, and
I'll haul you across. Got that?"

The pooka did not react. I couldn't tell whether he
understood. Well, no help for it; I had to do it. If this
worked, I would save the ghost horse; if not—

I slogged back to the firewall, hauling the chain. I dived




38                      Crewel lye

under. On the other side, I picked a suitable scorched
tree and strung the chain over a low, horizontal branch.

Then I hauled on the end.

There was resistance, of course. That muck didn't want
to let go of its prey. I hauled harder, hanging my whole
weight on it. Gradually there was give; slowly the chain
moved. I took a new grip and hauled some more, and
more came. Now it got easier; the pooka was helping.
Heave by heave and step by step, I hauled the animal
toward the firewall, though I could not see him on the
other side. If he failed to duck his head at the critical

moment—

Then the taut chain dipped into the muck, and I knew

the ghost horse was following my orders. I increased my
effort, and in a moment his head appeared on my side.

After that, it was easier. I got the pooka past the fire-
wall and into the shallow muck and finally onto the baked
mud. I removed the chain from the tree and rewrapped
it about the animal; he needed that chain to remain in
existence, as far as I knew. But I did not let go of it.

When I finished, I mounted him. "Willing or not, you're

giving me a ride," I informed him.

The poor thing was so bedraggled and tired he didn't
say neigh. I had my steed at last—or so I thought.

Chapter 3. Callicantzari

I rode Pook to a region where the trees had grown
back considerably and I prepared to spend the night. "I'm
going to let you go," I told him. "But you can see how
the firewall surrounds this region. You can't get out with-
out my help. So there's no point in running from me; you

Crewel Lye                      39

might as well just relax and graze." I dismounted—and
the ghost horse took off at a gallop.

I sighed. I had hoped—but of course I was just a back-
woods lunk, not understanding the true motives of people
or creatures, however much I tried. I foraged for some
fruit for my meal—it was amazing how fast these trees
progressed after being burned!—then settled down to
sleep. I didn't worry about predators here; they wouldn't
pass through the firewall.

Smoke roused me. Night remained—but the horizon
was bright. Fire was sweeping across the plain!

I cast about, knowing I was in trouble. Secure against
animate menaces, I had overlooked the inanimate. The
fire had me halfway surrounded and was moving faster
than I could run. The green grass and foliage had turned
brown; apparently the accelerated cycle of growth did not
stop with maturity, but continued through the season. Pall
had come to this region—and with it the fire, to clean
away the husks and set things up for the spring in the
morning. Maybe I could bury myself in the ground until
it passed. But the turf was hard; it would take hours to
dig myself in properly, and all I had were minutes.

I heard a rattle. There was the pooka, running terrified
before the flame. "Get over here!" I yelled. "I'll guide
you out!" Naturally he paid no attention, but I cut across
to herd him toward the advancing flame, where there was
a cul-de-sac, then used my rope to snag him. I hauled him
to me and climbed onto his back and gripped the chain.
I had my steed again—just in time.

It wasn't comfortable, sitting on the chains. When the
ghost horse had been in the muck, I had not felt the chains
as much, but now I did. But I had no choice; the fire
provided no time for comfort. I steered the horse by kick-
ing the side I wanted him to move away from. We galloped
for the closing gap in the ring of fire, my posterior bounc-
ing intemperately on the hard chains.

We reached the gap—and discovered that beyond it
was only another closing ring. No escape here! Now what
was I to do? I had promised to find a way out.

But I saw that part of the new ring was, in fact, the

40                      Crewel Lye

outer firewall. That was the boundary; no fire beyond

that. We could dive under it, and—

There was no water or muck here to use to get under
the fire. There was also no time. The bum was avidly

pursuing us.

"We've got to go through!" I cried. "Close your eyes

and hold your breath!" And I whammed the end of the
rope against the horse's flank, causing him to leap wildly

forward.

In midair we sailed through that firewall. I felt the band

of heat flash past my body, singeing my whiskers and
clothing; then we were through. We had had the advan-
tage of firm turf and high velocity this time; that had made
it possible. But I was not eager to return to the realm of

fire, if I had any choice in the matter.

We were on a plain before the southern mountain range
we had been unable to reach before. I was pleased; south
was the way I wanted to go, and I preferred mountains
to either bog or bum. I think Pook did, too.

We moved on toward the mountains as the sun came
up, then paused for breakfast. I let Pook graze, but this
time I did not dismount, knowing he would bolt. I simply
pulled down a dainty feminine fruit from an overhanging
branch and bit into it. I was surprised; it was not fruit but
meat—evidently a miss-steak, grown there by error.
Sometimes spells got befuddled. It made a good, solid
meal, however, though I would have preferred to cook

it.

In due course, we walked south again—and encoun-
tered goblin traces. Pook snorted nervously and I groaned;

we both knew that goblins were trouble. But we weren't
about to go back the way we had come. So we continued

south, much more warily.

It did us no good. A party of goblins spotted us. The

chase was on.

With goblins, you see, you didn't parley. Not in those

days, anyway; maybe goblins have moderated over the
centuries. You fought, or you ran, or you got tromped;

that was the extent of your options. Since there were
about ten of them, armed with sticks and stones to break

Crewel lye                      41

our bones, and only one of me and one ghost horse, plus
my good sword—well, I was young and foolish, but not
that foolish. I was no dragon, to chomp goblins by the
dozen, or ogre, to hurl them to the moon. So I took the
sensible option—I ran.

Pook, of course, was right with me. Under me, tech-
nically. Chains and all. He galloped. Ghost horses don't
like getting eaten by goblins, either.

The goblins gave chase. They were afoot and they had
stubbly little legs, big feet, and gross, ugly heads, but they
moved along pretty well. Also, one of them sounded a
blast on a horn, summoning the other goblins. It was a
stink horn, and it made a foul-smelling noise, the kind
that instantly attracted that kind of creature. So, though
we handily outran that bunch, we did not get free of gob-
lins.

They poured like hot lava out of the mountain. Today
I understand there are not great numbers of goblins res-
ident on the surface, though it may be a different story
in the dank, deep caverns; but in my day there were more.
They surrounded us in a putrid mass, grabbing at my legs,
yelling obscenely. Goblins are about as obscene as any
creature except the harpies.

Naturally I slashed with my sword, cutting off their
hands or anything else that came within range. Fingers,
noses, scalps, and other items flew out from our contacts;

oh, you should have heard those goblins yell! But there
were always more glaring faces, more hands, more sticks
and stones. It is never a pleasant business, fighting off
goblins, because they just keep coming thicker than be-
fore.

We tried to veer right, away from the goblin mountain,
but encountered the firewall. It blazed up brightly, ready
for us this time, as if daring us to try to get through it
alive. So we had to veer left—and discovered that we
really hadn't cleared the bog yet; an arm of it came down
almost to the mountain, and a leg of it extended north of
the mountain. That was no good either; the loan sharks
were waiting in it to take my arm and leg. So we charged
straight for the mountain—where most of the goblins were.




Pook bowled them over in his galloping fright, but I knew
we would soon be buried in goblins.

We plowed straight ahead, because we didn't dare turn
or stop. That was directly toward the mountain, which
loomed ever larger as we drew nigh. The goblins sur-
rounded it like a warty blanket. As we got close, I saw
that parts of it were terraced, with narrow winding paths
following the contours, and this gave me a notion.

I nudged Pook to the side, where a lance-tree grew. I
severed a lance with a passing sweep of my sword. Then
we looped back and slowed momentarily—the ghost horse,
afraid of the massed goblins, was now obeying my every
hint with marvelous alacrity, since I seemed to know what
I was doing—so I could flip up the lance with the point
of my sword and catch it with my free hand. I have pretty
good coordination with weapons; it's another barbarian
specialty. Then we resumed speed, and I sheathed my
sword and used both hands to hold the lance firm. It was
a good long one, with the point extending well ahead of
Pook's head.

Now we reached the base of the mountain. I guided
my steed to the nearest convenient path, and we swerved
onto it, churning out divots of turf as Pook's hooves made
the turn. The lance swept about, knocking goblins off the
path; they tumbled heads overfeets down the slope. Their
heads were big and hard as rocks and dented the mountain
slope where they struck, but their feet were soft; when
the feet struck, the goblins let out angry yells. Gobs of
goblins were crowding around the mountain, and the
bowling ones knocked over the standing ones like eight-,
nine-, or ten-pins.

We charged east along the path, the point of the lance
leading, and the goblins ahead dived out of the way. They
couldn't get at us as long as we kept moving. I began to
relax; my impromptu ploy was working, and we were es-
caping this pesthole. All we needed was to follow this path
right out of the goblin territory.

It turned out to be a trifle more complicated than that.
The path curved wondrously, as if seeking to confuse us;

it included a hairpin curve and a few nasty jags and jigs and

it branched and intersected other paths as the convolutions
of the mountain permitted. There were small goblin caves
along the way, each with its messy little front yard strewn
with fruit peels, animal bones, and other garbage. The gob-
lins in these poked sticks out to try to trip us and threw rocks
from their cover. Fortunately, neither their timing nor their
aim was very good, and we escaped injury. But it was ner-
vous business being bombarded from passing caves.

More enterprising goblins rolled rocks down the inter-
secting paths; most of these were small enough to be mere
nuisances, so that Pook could hurdle them, but some were
large enough to be threats. We were also conscious of the
sheer malignance of the massed goblins; there was not one
of them who wouldn't rejoice at our misfortune, simply be-
cause we were strangers. The goblins were the ultimate big-
ots of Xanth, hating all creatures who were not like
themselves and not feeling too positive about themselves,
either. I had heard that goblin females were different, but
all I saw here were males. No doubt the females were smart
enough not to indulge in this sort of quarrel.

Then the path slid down the curving mountain, as if tired,
and into the crevice between it and the next mountain. Too
late, I saw that this was a dead end; the path did not go up
the next slope. Instead it led directly into a large cave whose
depths were dark, ominous, and dreadful. No good ever
comes of caves like that!

The goblins were massed and charging behind us, some
carrying crude wooden shields, and several operated to-
gether to support a lance like mine. We could not turn about
and go back that way. We would be trying to charge uphill
against a prepared enemy formation. Neither could we turn
aside; the slopes of the crevice were too steep for us to nav-
igate. Glancing up, I saw goblins making ready to roll a
boulder down on us; already it was nudging over the brink.
They were leering with anticipation of the squash it would
make of us.

I had no choice—I guided Pook directly into the men-
acing tunnel. He didn't like this and I didn't like it, but it
was the only route left. Behind, I heard the malignant rum-
ble of the boulder coming down; then there was a sinister

shudder as it crashed into the tunnel, lodging there with
gruesome finality and blocking the entrance. Some debris
shook loose from the ceiling to shower down around us, but
the passage didn't collapse. That was a relief; I knew that
if the tunnel had survived this long, it was probably pretty
stable, but doubts are easy to come by in the deep dark.

We halted, but knew before we checked that we were
trapped. Even if we managed to push or pry out the boul-
der, we would encounter an army of vicious goblins beyond
it, eager to hurt us with sticks, stones, and names. Once
again we had no choice but to go forward. I have always
had a distinct dislike of such unchoices; they generally led
to mischief; and even if they didn't, I still preferred to get
into trouble in my own fashion rather than the forced-path
way.

It was good and gloomy in that cave. Light seeped in
around the ragged edges of the boulder; but in the deeper
reaches, it was foreboding indeed. Pook was a ghost horse;

he could see pretty well, since ghosts normally did their work
at night, but I had trouble.

"Pook," I said, "we're just going to have to follow this
cave into the mountain fastness. It must go somewhere, be-
cause the path led right to it, and maybe the other end will
let us out the other side of the hill." But I felt a chill of ner-
vousness coursing along my spine and hovering in that one
region it is impossible ever quite to scratch, because I knew
that not all paths that led in to things led out again. The path
to a tangle tree was a good example. But there was no point
in negative thinking at the moment. "So I'm going to have
to trust you to follow it through and not drop us into some
deep fissure. I know you don't like having me ride you, but
we're in this together, and maybe we can get out together.
Once we're safely out, we can worry about who gets to ride
whom where."

Pook made no response, but I hoped he understood the
situation. I aimed him for the black hole ahead and nudged
him with my heels. He moved forward at a walk, his hooves
sounding sharply on the stone. In fact, there were little
echoes—and I realized that my ears could serve in lieu of
eyes, to some extent. Barbarians have keen hearing, though

it can't compare with that of most animals. The echoes told
me that the walls were close beside us, but not ahead of us.

The tunnel trended down, as such things tend to do. I
didn't like that; I wanted to travel up and out of the moun-
tain. But one must go where one's road leads, even when
it's a distressing road.

After what seemed like an interminable time, I began to
see a little. There were small fungi growing in cracks in the
wall, casting a magic pastel glow. As we progressed, water
dripped, and the air got cooler and damper; the fungi grew
larger and brighter, until it was possible for me to make out
most of the passage. Some fungi were yellow and some green
or blue; in fact, they were all the colors of the rainbow,
though faint. It was really rather pretty.

The tunnel expanded, becoming a series of galleries, each
lined with the rainbow fungi. This was fine—but now there
were branching passages, and I didn't know which ones to
follow. Life is simpler when you don't have many choices,
even if you don't like the route you're stuck on. So I didn't
choose; I let Pook have his head, and we proceeded more
or less straight ahead.

Then Pook paused to sniff the air. I could see his head
only in silhouette, where it blocked the faint illumination
of the fungi, but I knew his nostrils were flaring. He smelled
something!

Then I smelled it, too—a fetid odor, the stench of some
large and thoroughly unpleasant creature. We were not
alone.

"We'd better try to avoid that thing," I murmured to
Pook. "It stinks a little like goblin, but worse." I still had
my lance, but wasn't sure how useful it would be in the con-
fines of the cave. I might run the point directly into a dead-
end wall and jar myself right off my mount.

We backed out of this chamber as quietly as we could
and tried an alternate one, but the smell only got stronger.
Then I realized that we weren't approaching the monster;

the monster was approaching us. It had heard our footfalls,
our hoof-falls, and was coming to investigate. "Let's get
out of here!" I said urgently, yielding, with a certain relief,
to panic. Oh, I know—barbarian warriors aren't supposed

46 Crewel Lye

to experience such emotion. Barbarian warriors don't be-
long in deep, dark caves with stinking monsters, either.

Pook picked up speed, moving as fast as he dared along
the passage. It wasn't fast enough; still the silent stink in-
tensified . We were deep in monster territory and not getting
out. Maybe the goblins had been herding us here all alons,
knowing what would happen to any creature who fearfully
braved these dank depths.

Suddenly the monster loomed before us. It was a gross
manlike thing, with horrible distorted features. The worst
monsters are always manlike; I've never been quite clear
why this is so, but it definitely is so. Fur covered this thing's
face; from the fur, a grotesque and bulbous nose poked out,
and under the fur, two great, ugly eye-slits peered, as from
behind a dirty veil; at the bottom of the face, several twisted
tusks projected. There must have been a mouth some-
where. The creature seemed to be male—the worst spec-
imens of anything are always male, except for harpies. His
arms were hairy extremities on which the muscles seemed
to be attached backward, and his torso had several bones
in the wrong places. In some ways he was like an unusually
large and grotesque goblin, but in other ways he was
worse—his breath, for one thing; his exhalations sur-
rounded him like a putrid cloud. Pook and I were gagging.

Later I learned that this was one of the callicantzari,
a race of monsters who lived mostly underground and
undermined the roots of important trees, such as the Tree
of Seeds on Mount Parnassus or the tree that supported
the sky—the trees without which Xanth as we know it
would cease to exist. Imagine a land without all the myriad
and wonderful species of trees that stem from those magic
seeds, or a land without any sky. How could we function
without the sun and moon and stars and clouds safely out
of the way? But it seemed that these monsters didn't
worry about that; they just wanted to bring down the
trees. Maybe that's one of the differences between mon-
sters and human beings—the monsters don't care what
happens next.

The callicantzari have tunnels going to every signifi-
cant mountain and labor diligently to bring down those

Crewel Lye                      47

trees, but when they get close to the surface and its un-
accustomed freedom, they rush out and run around, ter-
rorizing people and animals and dancing wildly, maddened
by the sight of the stars until morning comes. Even the
goblins can't stand them and will attack immediately if
they show up in goblin territory. That explains why the
callicantzari hadn't used our tunnel to escape. When they
get out elsewhere, and the sun rises, they flee its light in
terror. The shock always takes them some time to recover
from, and by the time they resume their normal equilib-
rium, such as it is, the trees have regrown their roots,
and the job has to be started over. Thus the callicantzari
are never successful, which perhaps is just as well. Gen-
erally, because of their repeated failures, they are in a
foul mood, and their breath suggests that mood. So'they
really have quite a history, and are not just ordinary mon-
sters. But at the moment, all I knew was that Pook and
I were in more trouble.

We slowed, to avoid the monster—but then another
appeared behind us, and we heard the tramping of others
in neighboring caverns. If there is one thing worse than
one monster, it is two monsters—and worse yet is a whole
slew of them. We were surrounded!

"Got to bull through and hope we win clear," I told
Pook. "Before we both suffocate from the stench. You
gallop, and I'll fend them off."

He galloped, and I aimed the lance at the monster
before us. The calli was too stupid to move, so that my
point caught him on the nose. The shock drove the lance
through his head and knocked it out of my grasp. We
charged on by the falling monster, who smelted even worse
wounded than whole.

But another appeared before us. I whipped out my
trusty sword, though I hated to soil my clean blade on ilk
like this, and struck at his ugly neck. Like the other, he
didn't move, and my blade decapitated him. Ugh, it was
gory! Barbarians are supposed to glory in blood, but this
was ugly, smelly, gunky blood that contained very little
glory.

Still there were more! Two lumbered from side tunnels,

reaching for me with their grotesque can-ion-hooks. I cut
the arms off the one on the right, but the one on the left
got me in a gruesome hug and hauled me off my steed.
Yes, I know that sort of mishap is not supposed to happen
to heroes. The truth is, it happens, but the Barbarian
Publicity Department censors it out.

Pook faltered, turning his head back to look at me.
More monsters were converging. "Run!" I cried at him
as I poked the point of my sword over my shoulder to
stab the face of the monster holding me. Hot ichor sprayed
against my neck, and I knew I had scored. "Get out of
here, Pook, before they catch you, too!"

The ghost horse took off, and I laid about me valiantly
with the sword, hacking off arms and legs and ears as
they came within reach. But as I had known, the monsters
were too much for me. One scored on my head with a
hammy fist, knocking me silly, and another took a huge
bite at my face. I felt his tusks sinking into my cheeks;

then I lost consciousness.

Naturally I wasn't aware what happened next, but now
I see it in the pictures of the tapestry, and my under-
standing of the situation helps fill it in. Satisfied that I
was dead, the callis hauled me down to their main depot,
where their cows and cubs lurked. There they clumsily
used my own fair sword to cut my body open so they
could gut me with their dirty claws. They yanked out all
my innards and gobbled them down as delicacies, quar-
reling over the scraps. Then they jammed me in a bi&pot
of cold water, to cook the tougher parts, and set about
fetching wood for a fire. This took some time, for they
had not planned ahead, and there wasn't much wood to
be found in the deep caves. But after some hours, they
scraped up enough, garnered from the roots of the trees
they had been trying to destroy. Now at last they were
ready to cook.

Meanwhile, some of them checked through my tattered
clothing to see if there was anything interesting there.
They chomped on the buttons and laces and ripped the
cloth, liking the ripping sound. They found the bag of
berry-berries I had saved, then fought again among them-


selves to see who could gobble the greatest number down.
Well, I daresay they felt the effect in due course; it was
almost worth dying to think of the effect those debilitating
berries would have on those monsters.

There was another problem: the callicantzari were afraid
of fire. It seemed its brightness, reminiscent of that of the
sun, hurt their eyes. If you ask me what sense it makes
to crave cooked food when you're afraid of fire, I can't
answer; I suppose monsters wouldn't be monsters if they
were sensible. If I had known about this before, I would
have arranged to bring a torch with me into their caverns,
so they would not have dared approach me. But barbarian
heroes aren't necessarily all-knowing, either.

Not one of the monsters wanted to light and tend the
fire. This problem hung them up another hour. At last
they drew lots for the one who would do the deed—but
then he had no spell to start the fire. They had to look
for another hour to locate the spell—by which time it was
their night, which happened to correspond with ours,
though I don't know how they knew. Maybe the glowing
fungi dimmed a little. So they left the feast until morning
and snored. Their snores were absolutely awful sounds,
like sawfish sawing down rock maple trees.

Meanwhile, Pook was galloping along the passages,
searching for a way out. The monsters weren't chasing
him, because they already had me for their meal and
weren't very enterprising folk. Pook finally did blunder
to an exit, went out, sniffed the air—and turned back.
He had smelled something that made him pause, so he
didn't want to brave it alone.

The ghost horse, now sure of the way, came back to
the central caverns and, near morning, sniffed out where
I remained in the pot. He nuzzled the top of my head,
waking me.

You see, I had had about ten hours to heal, and this
was enough. I hadn't really been killed; I had been knocked
out, my face bitten off, and my guts eviscerated. By this
time I had grown back my face and guts and healed the
wounds. It took longer than it had to mend my crushed
leg—the roc incident—because regrowing is more com-

50    •                Crewel Lye

plicated than merely healing existing anatomy. I remained
a little weak from loss of flesh, since my healing does not
create matter from nothing; it draws on the remaining
resources of my body. But I could function; I had been
a strapping young man before this started and now was
merely less strapping. Tissue from my big muscles had
been co-opted to replace my guts. "Knock over the pot,"

I told Pook.

He did so—this was the first solid evidence that he

understood my words completely—and I floated out with
the spilled water. The callis were such solid sleepers that
neither the clang nor the water sloshing by aroused them.
Indeed, the noise could hardly be distinguished over their
horrendous snoring, and the water was no more volu-
minous than their droolings.

I climbed unsteadily to my feet and got on Pook's back,
pausing only to recover my good sword. My bow had
been lost by the callicantzari; maybe they had used it as
part of the wood for the upcoming cooking-fire. I wouldn't
put such an outrage past such creatures! I still wore my
boots; they hadn't thought to take them off me before

putting me in the pot.

Then we were off, coursing upward through the pas-
sages, leaving the thick noise and stink behind. At last
we emerged into the wonderful bright morning on the
southeast slope of the mountain. Oh, what relief it was!
If I had to die, I much preferred to perish in the open
wilderness, rather than in the dank, closed caverns.

Chapter 4. Elf Elm

We found a fresh stream and a copse of pie
trees, and I drank and ate and foraged for suitable re-
placement clothing from shoe-trees—my boots were
sloshingly soaked, so I needed temporary footwear while
they dried—trouser-trees, and shirt-trees, to replace what
I had lost, while Pook grazed. I didn't try to hold or
confine him; I lacked the strength, and anyway I didn't
feel I had a right, since he had come back for me on his
own. Maybe he wasn't tame, but he had chosen to be my
companion for a while. I wondered why. I saw that he
did not stray at all far from me, and I doubted this was
from sudden affection. I hoped I wasn't being overly cyn-
ical—but then I knew I had brought him a lot of trouble,
and barbarians aren't noted for comprehension of the nu-
ances of interpersonal behavior.

It wasn't long before I found out. Pook lifted his head,
rattled his chains, and moved toward me.

"You want me to ride you?" I asked, bemused. "You're
not taking off alone into the wilds of the wilderness, know-
ing that I presently lack the strength or inclination to chase
you down again?" Actually, I was stuffed with pies, which
made me sluggish rather than weak, but this was also the
first use of my new face and digestive tract. Startups are
always awkward, and it takes a few hours to get the bugs
out; there was a lot of gas, and I felt a little green. But
every time I burped, another bug flew out, and I knew
they would all be gone in a few more hours. There was
no question that I was underweight, though; my thews
were pitiful. In a few days I would be as good as new,
more or less literally, but I needed lots of rest and food

51




52                      Crewel Lye

in the interim. I was no Magician; my magic talent had
to be tempered with moderation.

I really appreciated Pook's offer, whatever its motive.
It was easier to ride than to walk, until my leg muscles
filled out. So I harvested some cushions from the sur-
rounding bushes, fashioned them into a saddle seat that
would prevent the chains from pinching my rear, and
mounted. We began making our way south at a cautious

pace.

And the elves arrived.

Oho! That was why Pook needed me. Elves generally
leave human folk alone and aren't often seen, but they
are funny in some ways. They can be deadly fighters,
though they respect property rights. If they found Pook
alone, they would run him down and tame him for their
own use, making him a work horse. They could do that,
because there were a number of them, they had little
magic lariats, and they knew the terrain; they were ex-
perienced group hunters. But if they thought I owned him,
they would let him be—at least until they had dealt with
me. I was his buffer against the elves.

"Smart move, Pook!" I murmured with a certain rueful
appreciation. There was an aspect of this that worried
me. Elves usually, as I said, don't mess with human folk,
because there is a standing covenant between our two
species. It's a kind of mutual nonaggression pact. Since
human and elven interests seldom intersect, it is easiest
to respect one another's interests. It certainly saves trou-
ble. But both humans and elves had uses for a creature
like Pook. If the elves really wanted the ghost horse, they
might choose to quarrel. It wasn't good to quarrel with
elves in elven territory. They weren't always as small as

they looked.

At least now I knew that Pook had a fair brain in that

equine head. He couldn't talk—but of course, talking is
not necessarily a sign of intelligence. He had made his
problem mine. Unfortunately, I was in no fit condition to

do battle at the moment.

This was a party of six elves. They were armed with
assorted weapons and they wore green tunics. They were

Crewel Lye

53

proportioned and dressed like human beings—oh, sure,
human beings do wear tunics on occasion—but stood only
a quarter my height. I met them with respect, for I knew
that, at the best of times, they were far better as friends
than as enemies, and this was an indifferent or middling-
poor time. I cast about in my uncivilized mind for the
proper form of address. Was it Sire? No, sir.

"What be your business in Elven demesnes, Man?"
their leader demanded.

"Just passing through, sir," I replied carefully.

"How did you get past the goblins?"

"They drove us into the mountain, sir, and the mon-
sters there left me for dead, and my pooka rescued me."

The elf eyed me suspiciously. "You tamed a ghost
horse?"

"Well, partway, perhaps. It's hard to tame such a crea-
ture completely."

The elf considered, eyed Pook, and shrugged, satisfied.
"You seek no quarrel with us, Man?"

"None, sir. I'm just a barbarian warrior in search of
honest adventure."

"Honest adventure, eh?" He considered me again, and
I wasn't clear what thoughts were percolating through his
mind. "Would you agree that there are other kinds of
adventure than battling callicantzari?"

That was when I learned the identity of the mountain
monsters. "I certainly hope so, sir!"

"Then you will be our guest tonight."

Amazed, I had to stifle a gape. I had hoped only to be
allowed to pass without quarrel. "That's very nice of you,
sir."

"What's your name, Man?"

"Jordan, sir."

"I am Oleander Elf, of the tribe of Flower Elves. These
are—" He indicated his companions in turn. "—Cactus,
Dogwood, Knotweed, Bloodroot, and Arrowhead." In-
deed, I saw that they were armed in the manner of their
names. Cactus had a dagger made of a large cactus thorn,
Arrowhead had a little bow and quiver of arrows,
Knotweed had knotted rope, Bloodroot had a red bag of

54                      Crewe! Lye

fluid that might be blood-poison, and Dogwood had a
wooden spear tipped with a large canine tooth. Only
Oleander carried no visible weapon—but he was the
leader, and I suspected he had something, perhaps a fight-
ing spell. There were no goblins on this side of the moun-
tain, and this was surely because of these elves. Elves
did not seem as fierce and were certainly not as numerous
as goblins, yet they kept the goblins clear. That spoke for
itself. Like many people, I wondered what their secret
was, since, as far as I knew, goblins respected nothing

but brute force.

Oleander led Pook and me along a winding path to a

hidden glen. I was glad to go with them, for this was a
signal honor, and elves were creatures of integrity; as their
guest, I would be absolutely safe. But I remained mys-
tified as to why they should extend this honor to a wan-
dering barbarian. It could not be purely for delight in my
company; barbarians do not make very good company.
The journey took over an hour, for the little folk did
not travel as fast as a man, though they stepped out
sprightly enough. I did not mind, since I was riding and
also recovering from my recent injuries. The nourishment
from all those pies I had stuffed in my new face and gut
was working its way though the rest of my body, and my

thews were strengthening.

The elven camp was around and in an elf elm, of course;

everyone knows elves will reside nowhere else. When
danger threatened, the women and children retreated to
the heights, while the warriors ringed the base of the tree.
At the moment, most of them were down, for they were
setting up for their midday meal. The smells were good,
but I was still digesting pies and wasn't really hungry.
That was just as well, for their portions were small.

We sat on the ground, and the elven maidens served
leaves filled with stew. The leaves were cleverly worked
into bowls, so that the stew did not leak. I accepted mine,
curious what was in the stew but hesitant to ask. There
seemed to be chunks of vegetables, nuts, fruits, and meats
in it, and I suspected that the meat was from mice and

Crewel Lye                      55

grasshoppers. It tasted good, anyway, and was just enough
to top off what I had eaten before.

Then Oleander brought an elf maiden to meet me. "This
is Bluebell, who wishes to ask a favor of you, Man," he
said somewhat brusquely and departed. I wondered at
that anew; had I given some sort of offense? I had cer-
tainly tried to be a good guest, but one never can be certain
with nonhuman cultures, though the elves were about as
human as such cuitures got. If it were not for the dis-
tinction of size, I would hardly know the difference.

"A favor?" I asked. "I will be happy to help in any
way I can, but I don't know much about elves—"

Bluebell smiled. She was a lovely little creature, per-
fectly proportioned, like a doll in her green dress; "I will
tell you about elves, Jordan-Man," she said. "But first I
must do you a favor, so it's even. What would you like?"

"I am quite satisfied to accept the elven hospitality,"
I replied cautiously. I glanced across to where Pook was
grazing. Few animals got to touch grass as lush as that
which the elves cultivated around their elms. "And so is
my horse. That is favor enough."

"No, you will repay that by telling us your story to-
night," she said. "I mean, a favor from me personally."

What was she getting at? "Your charming company is
enough," I said. "Please tell me what you wish me to—"

"Not yet," she demurred. She jumped up to perch on
my bent knee, dangling her pretty legs in the way girls
had. "I must do you my favor first."

I shook my head. "As I said, I'm just a backwoods
man, unfamiliar with elven ways. I don't want to give
offense by making mistakes, and I have already antago-
nized Oleander in some way. So you will have to explain
to me exactly what—"

She emulated my motion, but the effect differed: when
she shook her head, her lovely elf-gray hair tumbled about
fetchingly. "Don't worry about him! He's just perturbed
because he wanted Cowslip to get your favor, but I won
the toss. Cowslip's his cousin, and she's all right if you
like that type." Bluebell indicated an elf maid nearby. 1

66

looked and saw a stunning example of the type; I did

indeed like it.

"I will do a favor for each of you, to keep the peace,"

I said magnanimously. "But I need to know what—"

She laughed merrily. "Only for me, Man; that's the
rule. I've got the spell. I won it and I won't share it."

I was more perplexed than ever. "What spell?"

She glanced at me sidelong. "You are delightful! I will
show you in due course. Now—name your favor."

I sighed silently. Evidently she preferred to play her
game with me, in the fashion of maidens everywhere, and
I felt every bit as ignorant as I was supposed to be. "Well,
I'm an adventurer, but I don't quite know where I'm
going. That is, I'm headed for Castle Roogna, the Man
capital, but there are a lot of barriers along the way, like
the goblin mountain, that I would have avoided if I'd

known. If I had a good map—"

"A map!" she exclaimed. "Of course! You shall have

it!" She bounced off my knee and ran to the tree, her hair
flinging out behind her. Doll she might be, but she was a

woman-doll!

Soon she was back, hauling a scroll about as big as

herself. Breathlessly she unrolled it for me on the greens-
ward, pertly sitting on the top end while I spread my
fingers to hold down the bottom end. "This is Xanth,"
she panted prettily. "Here we are, in the center, with the
goblins, griffins, and birds to the north and the dragons
to the south. To the east, beyond the river, is the big
ocean, and to the west are the five terrible Elements—
Air, Earth, Fire, Water, and the Void. They aren't nice
places; you don't want to go there. In fact, nowhere is

as nice as right here."

I perused the map with interest. "I came from up here,

in the fen. I ran into the—"

"Oh, no, don't tell your story yet," she protested. "Save

it for the whole tribe. Where are you going from here,

specifically?"

"Well, I thought south. I don't want to pass through

the Elements I see here, and I doubt I'd care for the
Region of the Flies below it, so if I go south and then

Crewel lye                      57

loop around to the west below—um, I don't see Castle

Roogna on this map."

She cocked her head and wiggled her toes, considering.
"I have heard the name, faintly. We elves don't concern
ourselves overmuch with human business. But all the other
details should be right. I think your castle is south of the—
the—I don't quite remember what, but south of it. Maybe
here." She pointed to the bottom section of the map,
marked HERE THERE BE OGRES, and shuddered.

Ogres! Naturally I knew of those huge, awful crea-
tures, but never had I seen one. "That's the sort of ad-
venture I'm looking for!" I exclaimed. "When I recover

my strength."

She glanced at me with feminine concern. "You are

ill?"

"No, not exactly. I was severely wounded by—" I

broke off as she began to protest. "I know—save it for
the tribe! Anyway, I'll recover fully in a few days, so
that's all right. It's mainly a matter of regrowing my lost
muscle tissue. I'll be in fit condition by the time I en-
counter the ogres. Then I'll go to Castle Roogna and
see what adventure awaits me there. This map will help
me get there faster. Thank you. Bluebell."
"So you accept my favor," she said, pleased.
"Certainly I do," I agreed. "Now what do you want

from me?"

She gazed at me with eerie intensity. "I think you

wouldn't understand yet," she said. "But when you are

ready, I'll tell you."

I shrugged. "Just so it's before I depart your charming

elf elm realm."

"It will be, Jordan-Man," she assured me.
Then the elves cleared away the remnants of the meal
and faced the tree in a great circle. The King elf stood
beside the trunk, clapping his hands for silence. "That's
Crown-of-Thoms," Bluebell whispered to me. She was
now perched on my shoulder, dangling her legs down into
my right shirt pocket. She was so light I hardly felt her,
and her grasp on my right ear, to steady herself, was like

a caress.

58 Crewel Lye Crewel Lye 59

King Crown-of- Thorns spoke, and a well-spoken King
was he. "I welcome the traveling Barbarian Man who
visits us this day," he said formally. "I invite him to ex-
change entertainments with us. First we shall show him

ours.

And from the towering foliage of the elf elm descended
ten elven damsels, suspended by threads, pirouetting in
the air. They came to rest just above the ground, then
began to swing like pendulum bobs, their motions slow
because of the length of their threads. They bounced in
unison, spreading arms and legs as they swung around
the tree. Then they swung in differing directions, forming
patterns that changed before my eyes could quite grasp
them, generating fleeting impressions of stunning beauty.
In and out they wove, now together, now apart, now
linking hands, now spinning separately. It was a unified
dance, lovely in its parts and in its whole, and I was duly
enchanted.

Then the damsels dropped to the ground, and a dozen
male elves approached the tree. These were young, healthy
specimens, muscular and coordinated—the equivalent of
barbarians. Their dance was on the ground, and it incor-
porated feats of strength. They spread out in a wide circle
about the elm. Each lifted a sizable stone, held it a mo-
ment, then dropped it.

Then they moved into a tighter circle, where larger
stones had been set. Each lifted one of these with no more
apparent difficulty than he had lifted the smaller one, to
my surprise. Once again they contracted the circle, where
lay yet larger stones, and each picked up one of these. I
wondered whether the larger stones were of lighter sub-
stance, to make this possible. Pumice, for example—magic
stone spewn up from the depths, some of it so light it
would float on water. That would explain what I observed
here.

King Crown-of-Thorns spied my perplexity. "You
doubt, honored Man?" he declaimed. "We will show you
the magic of our tree! Fetch us the largest log you can
carry!"

"Go ahead," Bluebell urged in my ear, her breath tick-
ling it. "Your present strength is enough for that, isn't
it?"

"For a small log," I agreed. I got up and searched
nearby, and there, conveniently laid out, were several
logs of assorted sizes. I hefted one and found it too light;

my strength had already recovered somewhat. I tried an-
other, and it sufficed; it was all I could handle in my
present condition. I got it up on my shoulder, displacing
Bluebell, who scampered nimbly onto my head and clung
to my hair, and I staggered toward the elm. Despite my
effort, I was aware of Bluebell clinging to my head, her
feet now on my left shoulder, her torso plastered across
my left ear, and her maidenly bosom squeezed against
my hair.

"This will do," the King said, indicating a spot on the
ground some distance from the tree. With relief I set down
the log, letting one end thunk solidly to the ground, then
easing the rest of it down. No elf would move that!

But the elves intended to try! As I backed off, the
twelve approached the log. They set themselves about it
and got their little hands under it and heaved together.
It wobbled but didn't lift. I was not surprised; since each
elf was a quarter of my height, depth, and breadth, that
meant each was about one-sixty-fourth my mass; that was
why Bluebell was so slight on my shoulder. I could have
supported her whole weight readily with my littlest finger.
So each elf might be able to heft one-sixty-fourth what I
could, and all twelve together—well, I'm not that apt at
math in my head, but it seemed reasonable that all twelve
elves acting in concert could lift only a fifth as much as
I could, maybe less. Of course, I did not have my full
strength back, and they had many little hands and had to
lift the log only marginally off the ground. Still, chances
were it was three times as heavy as they could manage.

The elves gathered at one end and lifted and shoved.
The ground was uneven, and this end was slightly raised,
so they were able to pivot the log about its center support
without lifting it. They got it parallel to the elm. Then
they all pushed, and slowly it rolled toward the tree. Well,
they were using their minds now, and leverage helped.




60 Crewel Lye

That was the way to do it. The velocity of the roll in-
creased as it went.

Then they stopped. They ranged themselves on either
side of the log and heaved—and this time they actually
got it up! Amazed, I watched as they carried it to the
region where the first small rocks had been dropped. There
they set it down, and six elves walked away. The re-
maining six tackled the log—and lifted it.

"There's something funny here!" I exclaimed. "Twelve
couldn't lift it before, and now—"

"There's more, Jordan-Man" Bluebell murmured tick-
lishly into my ear.

I watched. The elves carried the log to the second ring
of stones. There they set it down, and three of them de-
parted. The remaining three got at each end and the mid-
dle of the log-

"Now I'm sure they can't—" I began.

The log came up. I gaped. They were doing it!

Bluebell tweaked my ear. "We Elves have magic you
Men wot not," she whispered. Then, I swear, she kissed
the rim of my ear. I'm not sure which startled me more—
the log-lifting or the miniature kiss. What was going on
here?

The three carried the log to the third ring of stones and
paused. Then the two at the ends let go and walked away—
and the lone elf in the center carried the log the rest of
the way to the trunk of the elm.

I couldn't let this impossibility pass. I got up and strode
to the tree. "I want to check that log!" I said. It was in
my mind that they had found a way to make things lighter
near the tree.

The elf set it down. I reached down and picked it up—
barely. The thing was every bit as heavy as it had been.
How had he—?

Then I felt something odd. I was rising!
• I looked down—and discovered that the elf was pick-
ing me up by my shoes. His tiny hands gripped each of
my heels, and I was in the air, still holding the log.

I began to wobble, as much from surprise as from
unbalance, and he set me down. Then I put down the log

Crewel Lye                      61

and stood dazed. I had succeeded only in further confus-
ing myself. The elves around the tree were smiling mer-
rily.

"It is the tree, Jordan," Bluebell told me. "We elves
grow stronger as we approach it. That's why we always
camp near an elf elm."

"You mean—?" But already I saw that it was true.
The stones—as the elves' strength increased, they had
lifted larger stones. It had been no trick, just a demon-
stration. At the base of the tree, the strength of an elf
became practically infinite. "Females too?"

"Want me to pick you up?" she asked. "I can do it—
here beside the elm."

"You—do elves keep getting weaker, away from the
tree?"

"Yes, but it's on a declining curve. We change rapidly
near the tree, slowly away from it. As long as we don't
range out too far, we're all right."

"And if a monster attacks you—"

"We retreat as far as we need, toward the elm," she
agreed. "We protect the elms, and they protect us. The
magic doesn't affect anyone who isn't ofelven stock. So
our retreats are almost impregnable; an elven child could
heave a monster away. But we don't go out of our way
to bother other folk."

That explained why elves weren't seen much around
the fen where I had been reared. There were no elf elms
in that vicinity.

"Now it is your turn," she said. "You must tell your
story, for we elves are very curious about the other spe-
cies and regions of Xanth. I hope it is a good tale."

I shrugged. "I can embellish it if you wish."

"No, we prefer the truth."

So I settled down by the tree and narrated my story,
much as 1 have been doing here, and they listened atten-
tively and asked intelligent questions. They really were
interested, and I saw a scribe-elf making notes. It seemed
to me that what I had to tell was actually—if you'll excuse
the expression—pretty mundane stuff, since I had slain
no dragons and encountered no phenomenal sorceries,




62 Crewel Lye

but they really were interested and, at the end, satisfied.
The odd thing was that they seemed most taken with the
portions they knew most about, rather than those that
were beyond their experience.

Bluebell had said they wanted to hear the truth, so that
was what I gave them, unexciting as it might be, and they
liked that. Later I realized that this was only in part en-
tertainment for them; they were also judging me, and on
the basis of my story they judged me to be an honest man,
though they asked some very penetrating questions about
my talent for healing.

Finally, perceiving that they doubted, I suggested that
they cut off my fingers and watch them regrow. They
recoiled, I think, not so much from horror at the notion
of deliberate injury as from not wishing to seem to cast
aspersion on my integrity. So I simply rubbed my forearm
along the blade of my sword, cutting the skin so that blood
flowed, then held up my arm so that they could see how
rapidly it healed. They protested strenuously that such a
demonstration was not necessary, but in their very pro-
testation I concluded that it was. As I said, I am not expert
in the judging of other cultures, so maybe I have misin-
terpreted whatever significance existed.

Now it was growing late in the day. The elves served
some sort of fragrant grog in leaf mugs; mine was tiny,
of course, but I drank it—and the stuff burned down my
throat and filled my belly with fire and sent my head
floating somewhere above my body. Potent stuff!

"It is time for the favor," Bluebell informed me.

"Favor?" I asked, confused. "Oh. Yes. Tell me."

"This way," she said, leading me back to the tree. I
walked somewhat unsteadily, feeling the grog. That is to
say, groggy.

I stopped at the base of the trunk, but she proceeded
to climb the elm. "I can't go up there!" I protested, eying
the virtually vertical ascent. The tree was large, having
had time to grow during the centuries the elves had pro-
tected it; two human men would barely be able to reach
around it. There were no low branches; it was a great
column rising to the mass of foliage far above.

Crewel Lye                      63

"Yes, you can, Jordan," she told me. "The grog gives
you the power."

Dubiously, I tried it. I put my hands to the bark—and
they clung as if cemented. I brought up a foot, and it
adhered similarly. When I lifted one hand, it came free,
so I could take hold higher. Like a fly, I could walk the
wall! This, of course explained how flies did it; they
sneaked sips of elven grog.

So I followed her up, though the height was dizzying.
If the magic failed, I knew I would fall and be killed—
but I wasn't worried for three reasons. First, I did not
believe the elves meant me any harm, so the grog-spell
should hold. Second, if I did fall, my body would heal the
breaks within a day, so death would be only temporary.
Third, the pleasant stupor the grog has put me in made
all this- a matter of indifference; I simply didn't care. It
seemed almost natural to be following a doll-sized elf lass
up a huge tree.

At last we reached the first bifurcation of branches and
entered the foliage. Bluebell led me up through it until we
came to a great tangle of mistletoe in the highest reach.
The points of the missiles and toes scratched me, but I
healed in seconds. Bluebell entered this mass, and I fol-
lowed, discovering a way through; and lo! inside it was
a great globed nest, with pillows and a comfortable floor.
The fading light of day filtered in through the levels in
diffused fashion, pleasantly illuminating leaves and vines
of many colors.

I lay against the resilient and fragrant leaf wall. "This
is lovely," I said. "Now what is the favor I owe you? Do
you need some heavy object carried down to the ground,
or lifted up from the ground?" Though, with their super-
strength, it hardly seemed the elves would need my help
there.

She smiled as if finding something funny. Girls of any
species can be like that. "You need lift no object too heavy
to manage, Jordan," she said.

"Well, I'm ready to serve. Name it."

"It is the service that only you can give," she said.
"Your most precious possession."

64 Crewel Lye

Dismay sliced through my daze, abolishing it. "You
want my sword?"

She looked at me, astonished, then tumbled over in
laughter. I had to laugh too, for it seemed it was not my
weapon she was after; and indeed, I realized that a crea-
ture her size and sex would have no way to handle it.

I pondered, and sobered again, realizing what an elf
would want of a man like me. "My horse!"

Bluebell managed not to laugh this time, but obviously
she was feeling merry. She came to sit on my knee, as
she had done below. "Now how could I get a ghost horse
up here?" she asked, and then the laughter bubbled up
and overflowed again. Elves certainly are merry folk!

"Well, I know elves need transportation and hauling,
away from the tree," I said. "A creature like Pook doesn't
lose strength—" But I saw she was just about to fall off
my knee with mirth, and of course I was relieved to know
that this had not been a ploy to demand Popk. He really
would have felt I had betrayed him, and certainly I had
not intended to do that. "But—what do you want, elven
maid? I'm out of precious possessions."

I don't know why she was so overbubbling with laugh-
ter. "You can not guess, Jordan-Man?"

"I'm only a barbarian warrior, not too smart," I re-
minded her somewhat tersely.

"But honest and strong and nice," she said.

"And not good at riddles," I added, annoyed.

She unbuttoned her green tunic, slipped out of it, and
sat again on my elevated knee. She was a lovely miniature
woman in every respect. "Now can you guess, Jordan-
Man?"

"You want me to fetch new clothing for you?"

This time she doubled up and rolled about with the
force of her laughter, in the process showing a good deal
more than she ought and landing in a pretty heap in my
lap. "Oh, barbarian, you still have something to leam
about elves—or about women," she said when she had
recovered some of her breath.

"I know about women," I replied somewhat stiffly,
remembering Elsie. "I never claimed to be expert on elves.

Crewel Lye                      65

I knew of you Little Folk mainly by hearsay, until I met
you today. You seem very like human beings, except for
your size and your magic."

"There you utter truth indeed!" But still she seemed
to be bursting with some horrendously humorous secret.
"You don't know the nature of an Accommodation-Spell?"

I shook my head. "No."

"Oh, this is fan!" she exclaimed, peering up at me and
kicking her legs about. "I knew barbarians only by hear-
say, too. You're much more fun than I expected."

"Thank you," I said awkwardly.

"For your information, Man, the Accommodation-Spell
was fashioned by one of the Magicians of your kind. I
think his name is Yin-Yang. He packages spells of all types
and peddles them to anyone who is interested."

"I never heard of him."

"I think he lives down near Castle Roogna."

"Castle Roogna!" I exclaimed. "That's where I'm
going!"

"So you said. After completing my favor."

"Yes. If you'd only tell me what—"

She tired of teasing me. "Jordan, you force me to be
direct, I want your help to summon the stork," she said,
or words to that effect. "I want a baby—a halfling, able
to be among men and elves."

I gaped at her. "That's impossible!" I protested. "The
size—it—I—I've got to get out of here!"

"The favor!" she cried. "You promised!"

"But—"

"Here, I'll invoke the spell," she said. She made a
gesture with her hands. There was a flash, and then a
fanny wrenching sensation.

When my equilibrium re-established itself, I discovered
that the bower had expanded enormously. It was now
twice as big in diameter as it had been and eight times
the volume. Length-volume judgments come readily to a
person who may have to carry home the mass of the
animal he puts an arrow through; he quickly learns that
twice the height means a good deal more than twice the

66 Crewel Lye

weight. The cushion I sat on was now more like a small
bed.

"How do you like me now, Jordan?" Bluebell asked.

I turned my head to look at her—and gaped again.
She was my size—or as close as a woman need be. She
was phenomenal; the attributes that had been cute when
she was small were now voluptuous. "I—what hap-
pened?"

She laughed yet again. "It's the spell," she explained.
"It accommodated us. You are now an eighth your former
mass, and I am eight times mine, so we're the same."

I looked at the bower again and the cushion. Yes; every
dimension had doubled, which meant that my own di-
mensions had halved. I was half as tall, half as wide, and
half as deep, while she had doubled every dimension. It
certainly made a difference!

"But the baby," I protested. "If—"

"When," she corrected me.

"When the, uh, the stork brings—what size will;'/ be?"

"My size, of course, so I can take proper care of him,"
she said. "Until he leaves the tree. Then—who knows?
Some halflings can change size."

"I certainly never expected this!" I said.

"So I gathered," she said. "Well, let's not waste time.
I know you want to get on with your more interesting
adventures, where there be ogres and such."

There is no point in describing in tedious detail what
followed. I'll just say that elven maidens are fully as adept
in summoning storks as are human maidens, and I was
glad to do my part. When I had done it, I got ready to
leave the bower, but Bluebell held me back. "Not yet,"
she said.

Oh? Well, the Accommodation-Spell hadn't dissipated
yet, so there was no point in my leaving the bower then;

I would be too small to do much adventuring.

We ate, for the bower was stocked with giant fruits
and nuts and bags of beverage. I suppose they were nor-
mal size; I was the one who had changed. Anyway, we
feasted. There was a privy region for other natural func-

Crewel Lye                      67

tions. Then I napped for perhaps an hour and felt much
improved when I woke.

It seemed she wanted to signal the stork again, so we
did that. When that was done, again I thought it was time
to depart, but again she restrained me. So we had another
meal, and another sleep, all very nice, and I woke yet
further restored. It turned out that she wished to generate
a third message to the stork—or maybe she figured that
three storks were better than one—and she was so lovely
and persistent that I could do no less than cooperate.

"Now it is complete," she said. "The stork will come."

"You're sure?" I asked. "Maybe it would be better to
send a few more messages."

She laughed, as she did so readily. "You are truly
delightful, Jordan-Man, but I have held you too long al-
ready. I have felt the stork's acknowledgment; the baby
will be delivered in due course."

That was the funny thing about the stork: it insisted
on a delay before delivery. Maybe this was to give the
prospective mother time to change her mind, or learn how
to pin diapers. But I knew Bluebell's mind was set; she
wanted that halfling.

So she dismissed me, and I had to depart. Such is the
life of an adventurer. "It's certainly been fun," I told her,
"and I'll remember it always."

She kissed me, one last time. "You're sweet." Then
she waved her arms, reversing the spell, and in a moment
we were back to our original sizes.

We drank another draught of grog and left the bower,
climbing through the foliage and on down the massive
trunk of the elm. The other elves of the tribe were awaiting
us at the base.

"We have cared for your horse these three days,
Barbarian," King Crown-of-Thorns told me.

"Three days?" I said incredulously.

"Aye, Man! Did you not know?"

"It seemed like three hours!"

"Now we must see to the augur," the King said. He
led us to an old woman elf who sat at a shaped stone and
had a sparkling ball before her.

68 Crewel Lye

Bluebell stopped before the old woman. "The fate of
my baby," she said.

The woman picked up the ball and flung it at Bluebell.
The ball expanded to englobe her for a moment, then
contracted and returned to its place on the stone.

The woman peered into its sparkles, which now seemed
to have a different pattern. "A son," she said. "He will
leave you when he matures and go seek a wife among the
human kind. He will never achieve notoriety, but his des-
cendants may."

"Thank you," Bluebell said, sounding disappointed.
Evidently she had hoped for more.

Aware of this, the woman peered more closely, tracing
down a particular sparkle. "Let me see—there is one, far
down the line, centuries hence—yes, she will consort
with human Kings of Xanth."

"Oh!" Bluebell exclaimed, brightening.

Then the old elfess threw the globe at me. Surprised,
I stepped back, but it expanded to my size and englobed
me. For an instant I was dazzled by the sparkles; then
they were gone, and the globe was back on the stone.

The elfess' little face turned grim as she contemplated
the sparkles. "Let's pass on this one," she muttered.

"No, I want to know," I said. "If I am to be ancestor
to the consort of Kings, what it says about me should be
known."

The elfess grimaced. "You will be doomed by a cruel
lie," she told me. "Yet it is not the end. After your flesh
has rotted, you will find true love."

"Uh, thank you," I said, no more thrilled than Bluebell
had been at first. I didn't really believe in fortune-telling,
but I didn't really disbelieve, either.

Then the gathering dissipated. The King bade me fare-
well, ironic as that might seem after the prophecy, and
Bluebell climbed up to give me a parting kiss.

I went to Pook, who had been happily grazing for three
days on the rich elf-sward and was fit and fat. He had not
tried to leave, for that would have implied that he was
not my true steed, and the elves might have become awk-
wardly suspicious. So he had stayed, and when the elven

Crewel Lye                      69

children had begged him for rides "in the name of the
Barbarian Man," he had obliged. I knew he was not yet
tame, merely smart enough to play the role he had to.
Just as I had been, up in the bower of the elf elm.

I mounted and rode away, pausing at the fringe of the
glade to wave to the assembled elves. They waved back.
Then, somewhat sadly, I moved on.

Chapter 5. Bundle of Joy

I rode through the pleasant elf-kept forest, feel-
ing better as the poignancy of parting passed. I had indeed
spent three days with the elves. My body had completed
its process of healing, and I was at full strength again.
Maybe that had been one reason Bluebell held me so
long—to send me out into the jungle fully ready, rather
than partly ready. If so, she had done me a favor beyond
my realization at the time. Surely the other elves would
not have let me stay, once she finished with me; they
were businesslike folk at heart. But if I ever encountered
another such tribe, I would be sure to pay my respects;

I liked their mode of entertaining travelers.

The map showed that I was approaching dragon coun-
try. But I couldn't skirt it to the west; the Elements of
Earth and Air were there, marked unfit for occupancy.
The map was accurate about the northern regions I had
already traversed, and I believed it about the southern
ones. That left the eastern side, and I decided to go that
route. How nice to have forewarning about the dragons!
Naturally barbarians boast of slaying dragons, but the
closer a barbarian actually gets to a dragon, the less in-
clined he feels toward combat. I found myself in abso-
lutely no hurry now. So I veered Pook east.

70

Crewel lye

Crewel Lye

71

We traveled for a day without event. Things were quiet
in the elven region; there weren't even any tangle trees.
It occurred to me that in some respects the elven society
was superior to the human one; it certainly wasn't this
pleasant or safe in the vicinity of Fen Village.

But as we left the elven region, the terrain became
rougher, and we came up against the river the map showed
as originating in the south and flowing north, parallel to
the more distant coast. I considered crossing it, but there
were flashes of color in the water's depths, and Pook
balked. He remembered the sharks in the bog, and I
couldn't blame him. So we turned south, into dragon
country after all.

Then Pook sniffed, winding something. He wasn't
afraid, just nervous, so I let him go toward it. It turned
out to be a patch of blood on the forest floor, a scratchy
trail, and a few feathers.

"Some bird came down to drink from the river," I
conjectured. "And some predator attacked it. Bird got
away, but injured. Happens all the time in the wilder-
ness."

But still Pook sniffed, perplexed. "There's more?" I
asked. "Want to track down the bird? I warn you, it won't
be pretty." I knew that few horses, ghost or otherwise,
had much taste for blood.

Pook sniffed out the trail, and I let him. He had a better
nose than I had thought. Why was he so interested in

this?

Then we came in sight of the bird. It was a white stork
with a broken wing—and it had a bundle.

I doubletook, astonished. This stork was making a de-
livery! That bundle contained a baby!

Could Bluebell—? No. As I said, there was always a
delay of several months before the baby was delivered.
The bureaucratic lapse differed, and tended to be longest
for human beings; evidently storks didn't like human peo-
ple as well as they liked mouse people or gremlin folk or
whatever. Certainly the wait was more than a day for
elves. Besides, the bundle was way too big to hold an
elfling.

The stork looked at me. His eyes were glazed with
pain. "Friend or foe?" he asked.

"You talk?" I asked stupidly. It was difficult to believe
that such a long, hard beak could form human syllables.
But it was also not easy to believe that those backward-
bending knees could enable it to walk. If we disbelieved
everything that was hard, we wouldn't believe in Xanth
at all.

"I talk," he agreed. "I don't fly, at the moment. I suf-
fered a mishap." He craned his head about on his mar-
velously supple neck to eye his torn wing, from which
blood still dripped. "Are you planning to help or hinder?"

"Uh, to help, I guess," I said awkwardly. I hadn't
known that storks conversed with people like this. If they
spoke our language, why did we have to make such in-
tricate signals when ordering babies? It should be easier
just to send a letter. No—immediately I relized that il-
literates like me would never be able to order offspring,
then; so there had to be a nonverbal or nonwritten signal.
Anyway, I had never met a stork before; evidently their
line of business required human communication at times,
so they were trained for it. "But I don't know exactly
what I can do. I'm not apt at heating others."

"There's a healing spring south of the—I forget what,
but that's where it is," the stork said. I realized that the
bird's brain was suffering some fuzziness. "I could fly
there quickly—I know right where it is—if I could fly. But
that confounded little dragon caught me unawares. I pecked
it on the snout and it ran home to its mother, but alas,
my wing was already gone. So I'll just have to hoof it, so
to speak."

I studied the bundle. "That looks pretty heavy," I re-
marked. "Are you sure you can carry it, in your condi-
tion?"

"I must deliver!" the stork said, folding his good wing
across his breast and gazing reverently upward.

"Uh, yes. Maybe we can give you a ride."

The stork looked at Pook. "That would be appreciated.
But it's a fair bit, by foot. And it's to ogre country."




72 Crewel Lye Crewel lye 73

"That's where we're going," I said. "Let me give you
a hand with that." I reached for the bundle.

There was a growl, and a hairy hand came out and
grasped my wrist with appalling strength. Startled, I jerked
my hand away—and the thing came right out of the bun-
dle, hanging onto my wrist. It was a hairy mass of glower
and growl.

"That's no baby!" I cried, shocked.

"Yes, it is," the stork said tiredly. "A baby ogre. Tech-
nically, an ogret. I told you where I was taking it."

"So you did," I agreed. Barbarians are not too bright
about some things; I had missed the obvious connection.
Of course ogres had babies, too, just as did humans and
elves. Hardly as nice as humans and elves, but a similar
principle. "Now how do I get this little monster off my
wrist?" The matter was getting urgent, because the ogret
was chinning himself up, one-handed, and was angling to
bite off my hand.

"Knock him on the head until he lets go," the stork
advised.

"But he's a baby'"

"That's how ogres show affection."

"Oh." Live and leam. 1 rapped the baby on his stony
skull with my free knuckle, bruising my hand, and he let
go and dropped back into the bag.

"We'd better deliver him before he gets hungry," the
stork said.

Excellent notion! I loaded stork and bundle on Pook,
then mounted. The ogret grabbed onto a link of chain and
started chewing on it. The three of us were crowded, but
Pook could handle it. Apparently he had some sympathy
with the plight of the stork. Pook was a pretty decent
animal, really.

The ghost horse started out at a brisk pace. I knew
why; there was an incoming smell of dragon on the wind.
How long would it take for the dragonlet to bring its
mother back here?

"It's really not far to—to—" the stork remarked, but
seemed to forget what he was going to say. It was as if
his blood were draining right out of his memory.

There was a sound. I felt a shiver; that was a dragon
snort, off to the right. I was in no mood at the moment
to take on a dragon! I urged Pook to faster speed, but he
needed no urging; he fairly flew across the land. I looked
back over my shoulder to check on stork and ogret; the
stork had his feet hooked firmly into a chain, so was
secure, but the ogret had chewed almost through the link
he was working on. "Stop that!" I snapped at him, and
he growled and continued chewing. The trouble with ju-
veniles these days is that they have no discipline!

The dragon heard us, of course, and moved to intercept
us. Dragons have phenomenal ears that tune in on what-
ever interests them; what interests them most is prey, and
just about any living creature is prey to a dragon. I had
heard folk tales about single men fighting and slaying sin-
gle dragons, but the closer I came to that sort of activity,
the less I believed it. The fact is, the smallest grown
dragon is generally more than a match for the largest man,
unless that man has magic. I did have magic, of course,
but I wasn't sure how much good it would do me in the
belly of a dragon. I suppose in time my bones would
reconstitute from the dragon droppings, and I would re-
cover, but I didn't care to try that out. Certainly there
would be some discomfort and awkwardness. Who wants
to wake in the middle of a pile of dragon manure?

Pook was making excellent time. We were leaving the
dragon behind. But then another popped up ahead, and
I knew we were in trouble. In fact, I was coming to resent
the myth that barbarian warriors love to fight dragons; it
seemed that the dragons were the first to believe it, being
eager for the fray. There is a distinction between adven-
ture and folly that even the average barbarian is aware
of.

We veered to the left, to the bank of the river. The
river was smaller here than it had been downstream, but
when we sought to cross it, a water dragon lifted its head
and hissed. No escape there!

"Hang on—I've got to fight!" I warned. Supposedly,
barbarians fight just for the fun of it; that's a half-truth.




74                      Crewel lye

We enjoy combat when we expect to win. With dragons,
the odds are inclement.

I guided Pook with my legs. He was very responsive,
knowing that once again his half-life was on the line as
much as my whole life was. I anchored my left hand on
a chain and lifted my good sword with my right. The
dragon behind me was a fire-breather, so we stayed clear
of it; the one in front was a smoker. That would be no
fun, but was a better risk than fire. They say that where
there's smoke there's fire, but that's not generally true
among dragons. They also say that more people die from
smoke inhalation than from direct bums, but-I didn't trust
that. So we charged the smoker snout-on.

The dragon opened his mouth, inhaling. Naturally he
didn't stay stuffed with smoke all the time, any more than
a man holds his breath all the time. The smoke is gen-
erated in the belly at need, a bit like gas in the human
belly, and it takes a moment to work up the proper pres-
sure and richness. I did not allow the dragon that time; I
came up so fast that I arrived just as the first puff of
smoke started out. I didn't bother with anything fancy; I
simply rammed the point of my sword up his right nostril.
Since I was hanging onto Pook, and Pook was charging
forward, that thrust packed a lot of wallop.

The sword shoved its full length up the dragon's nose,
and my gloved hand followed it, and also my arm up to
the elbow. It was an excellent shot; I knew the point had
skewered The creature's tiny brain. That wasn't a mortal
wound, of course, but it did cause the monster some dis-
comfort. Dragons don't really like having swords rammed
up their noses, and they can get quite perturbed about
having their brains skewered. For one thing, it causes
their coordination to suffer somewhat, and that's incon-
venient when one is engaged in mortal combat.

I braced my body against the dragon's warm snoot and
hauled out my sword. A gout of blood followed it, dousing
me in gore. But the dragon's head of smoke was already
under way, and now this shoved the gore clear and blasted
out to surround us. I held my breath, of course, and trusted
the others were doing the same; it's a natural and sensible

Crewel Lye                      75

reflex. I urged Pook away from there. He obeyed with
alacrity, and in a moment we emerged from the smoke
ball. The dragon was thrashing and choking, as the blood
and smoke mixed in his nostril to form smog. Blood and
smoke are relatively harmless separately, but smog can
be deadly. The hole in the monster's brain was bothering
it, too, so it wasn't handling its pipes as well as otherwise.
Thus the smoker was preoccupied for the moment, and
we didn't need to worry about him.

But now the fire-breather caught up. "Go for the tail!"
I told Pook. I meant the tail of the smoker, which might
shield us from some of the blast of the fire-breather's
breath. But the ghost horse misunderstood and galloped
for the wrong tail.

Naturally the dragon's head whipped about, a jet of
fire chasing us in an apparent curve. We hurdled the tail
just as the fire caught up—and the dragon toasted its own
tail. Now, dragons have insulated pipes for the fire, but
their flesh lacks that protection. You should have heard
the roar it made!

"South!" I cried.

Pook oriented south and shot forward like an arrow.
The two hurting dragons bumped into each other and got
tangled in their own coils. By the time they realized we
were gone, we were too far gone for them to catch us.
I'd like to claim that this was my consummate skill in
maneuvering, but it was simple garden-variety luck, and
I wouldn't care to try it again.

But we weren't home free yet. A flying dragon had
been attracted by the commotion and was cruising over-
head. It had not descended while it looked as if the big
land-bound dragons would eat us, but now it looped about
and zeroed in. I saw its body huffing up fire and knew
we had to get out of the way in a hurry. We couldn't
outrun that!

"River!" I cried. Pook angled for the river, trusting my
judgment, and his hooves struck the water as the first jet
of fire slanted down. The fire missed, generating a huge
hiss of steam as it hit the water. Water never did much
like fire, and the sentiment was mutual.




76

Crewel Lye

The water dragon humped up. It elevated its head and
roared at the flier, angry at this poaching in its preserve.
When the flier didn't sheer off fast enough, the water
dragon pursed its lips and squirted a column of water up,
scoring on one wing. Now the flier changed course, spin-
ning out of control; the blast of water had dislocated one

wing.

"I know how that feels," the stork remarked as the

dragon tumbled into the water.

We got back on land and galloped south again, having
escaped all four dragons. No doubt I would boast to my
grandchildren of this exploit—but I never wanted to run
that particular gantlet again!

Then a second flier appeared and drew a bead on us.
This was the land of dragons, all right!

"Trees!" I yelled.

Pook headed for a copse of trees ahead. I hoped their
trunks and foliage would help shield us from the flame.
But then the horse braked to a halt.

"What are you doing?" I cried. Then I saw why.

The copse perched on the edge of a monstrous fissure
in the ground. It was a sheer cliff leading down beyond
vision; we couldn't go there! "What's that?" I asked in-
credulously.

"Now I remember!" the stork said. "It's the Gap Chasm!
Can't think why I forgot about it before. I've flown over
it hundreds of times."

"It's not on the map!" I muttered. What a thing to

leave off!

Then the flying dragon caught up. Its jet flame seared
down. Pook leaped out of the way—but the fringe of the

fire touched us.

It fried my right arm and heated the hilt of my sword
stove-hot. The stork's feathers caught fire. The ogret
growled as his bag smoldered.

Pook leaped again, and the chains on his body slipped
around his barrel, and we were dumped hard on the ground.
My face smacked into a rock, and the whole Land of
Xanth seemed to whirl about me. I saw my sword fling
free—right over the brink of the chasm. Then I lost con-


Crewel Lye                      77

sciousness. I do that when I get knocked hard enough,
embarrassing as it is.

When I woke, I could tell by the slant of the shadow
that only a little time had passed. My talent was already
healing me; after all, it was only a burn and a fall. But I
wasn't able to move yet; maybe my neck had been bro-
ken, paralyzing me, and that hadn't healed yet. So I lay
there with my head on the ground, absolutely still, and
saw what I could see.

Nearby was the bundle of joy, with a short length of
chain dangling from it. The little monster had chewed right
through the link! Beyond was the bashed body of the
stork. The fire had burned away the feathers and cooked
the rest; the stork was dead. There was no sign of Pook;

he had his freedom at last, if he had managed to escape
the dragon. Well, I couldn't blame him for that; I had not
done too good a job of protecting us from evil.

Then I saw a shadow. The dragon was returning! That
was good for Pook, for it meant he had found cover and
hidden from the monster. But it was bad for me. I willed
my neck to heal, but nerves can't be rushed, and bone is
slower yet; I still couldn't move anything below my head.
And anyway, my sword was gone. How could I fight off
a fire-breathing flying dragon bare-handed?

The dragon spiraled down and glided to a landing. It
was ready to feed. It hobbled along the ground, weak on
its feet in the fashion of its subtype, and snapped up the
body of the stork. Two chomps, and the bird was gone.

The dragon hobbled another pace and reached for the
bundle of joy. Suddenly the bag burst open, the ogret's
hairy arm came out, and it swung the length of chain in
an arc that smacked the links smartly across the dragon's
nose. Little stars flew up, and a comet whirled away; it
had been a hard strike.

The dragon blinked. Then it hissed. It pumped its bel-
lows, preparing for another blast of fire to cook this ar-
rogant morsel.

Just as the flame was ready, the ogret's ugly head
popped out of the bag. Few things in Xanth are as ugly
as an ogre's puss, and the sudden appearance of such a

78

Crewel Lye

Crewel Lye

79

grotesquerie can be a shock. "Growr!" he growled in the
dragon's face. If there is one thing worse than an ogre's
puss, it's his growl.

The dragon was so startled he swallowed his fire. In
fact, it backfired. There was a sort of internal rushing
sound, and flame shot out of the dragon's tail. The mon-
ster straightened, its system reamed out, then curled and
thrashed about as the heat of the fire cooked its own flesh.
It rolled across the ground—and tumbled over the cliff.

Now at last my neck healed. The paralysis left me, and
I sat up. My right arm remained inoperative, but was also
improving. "You do have your points, ogre baby," I said.
For it was a fact that the ogret had just saved me from
getting toasted and consumed.

There was the sound of hooves. Pook was returning.

"What's this?" I asked as I stood. "Are you tame now?"

Pook snorted indignantly and swished his tail. He
glanced back over his mane.

I looked. More dragons were coming. They had us
surrounded!

"I should have known," I said, flexing my recovering
arm. "You figure I can get you out of this?"

Pook nodded. He had confidence in me. Maybe he had
given me more credit for dealing with the flying dragon
than I deserved.

I considered, briefly. "Well, we can't go back the way
we came. And my sword's down in the—what did the
stork call it? The Gap Chasm."

The ogret growled. "Oh, yes," 1 said. "You need to be
delivered, and the stork can't do it. I guess I do owe you
a favor." That reminded me of Bluebell Elf, and the favors
I had exchanged with her. My map was gone, burned,
but I no longer needed it; anyway, the Gap had not been
on it. I thought again how odd it was that the map should
be in error about so gross a feature of landscape, when
the elves were generally so meticulous about accuracy.
And the stork had been unable to remember it, until ac-
tually seeing it. Maybe there was magic involved.

I peered down the cliff. It was impassable. I looked
east, along it—and saw the river. It flowed up the cliff

face, over the lip, and on to the north, where I knew it
broadened out into a refuge for water dragons. It hadn't
occurred to me that a river could flow up a wall, but, of
course, there was a lot of Xanth I hadn't seen before. I
have heard it said that travel broadens the mind; it cer-
tainly was doing so for me! "Maybe there," I murmured.

I loaded the bundle of joy on the ghost horse, and the
hairy hand latched onto another length of chain. I knew
the strength of that hand; he would be secure.

I mounted and guided Pook east to the river. Again I
flexed my right arm; it was just about better now. I don't
know how I'd survive without my healing talent!

We reached the river before the dragons did. The water
at the lip was too shallow for the water dragon, fortu-
nately. We could cross it—but so could the land dragons.
No real escape there.

How about down into the chasm?

"We'll wade upstream," I told Pook, putting more Con-
fidence into my voice than I felt. I headed him for the
water at the brink. His ears went flat back and he balked.
So I dismounted and led him. I stood at the lip, then
stepped over. My body tilted around at a ninety-degree
angle, and I found myself standing on the face of the cliff,
knee-deep in water. It was working!

After a moment, with the dragons closing in, Pook
followed. His forehooves passed the corner, and he strad-
dled the lip as if it were the top of a pyramid, his belly
almost scraping. Then he got his hind legs across and
stood with me, his head pointing down into the Gap. "See,"
I said. "It has to be level for the water to flow without
falling. Rivers have ways of navigating that we can only
emulate. As long as we wade, we won't fall." I certainly
hoped that was true!

But Pook remained uncertain, so I continued to lead
him- We waded upstream, downcliff. A dragon poked its
head over the corner, but lacked the courage to follow.
After a moment, the dragon fired a jet of flame, but the
perspective confused it and the jet missed. We proceeded
out of range. Fortunately, no more flying dragons ap-
peared; maybe this region was awkward for their flying.




80

Crewel Lye

Crewel Lye

81

The water was cold. The chill of it soon soaked through
my boots and into my feet. "We'd better get to the bottom
of this," I remarked, looking down into the Gap. But the
bottom was still a long way ahead.

I moved to the edge of the water channel, hoping the
effect extended beyond the water. But I was cautious. I
scooped up a handful of water and hurled it to the side,
out of the channel.

The moment the water left the region of the channel,
it made a right-angle turn and took off forward, acceler-
ating toward the base of the cliff. I couldn't hear the splat
as it struck, but I knew I did not want to go that route ~

myself.

Nevertheless, my toes were becoming numb, and I
could see that Pook wasn't comfortable, either. No one
likes to get cold feet! At this rate, our toes would freeze
before we could get out of the water. I had to do some-
thing!

I bent to peer into the water. Now I saw small fish
swimming in it. I scooped one up—and cold stabbed
through my hand. That was one cold fish!

"I wish I had a hotfoot," I said. "Or a hot dog. That
would drive away the cold fish." But wishes wouldn't do
me much good. I needed something more tangible and
immediate. My feet were freezing!

I glanced back again at Pook. He was shivering. My
eye fell on the bundle of joy. A notion bulbflashed in my
skull so brightly that I suspect some light leaked out of

my ears.

I went to Pook's side, selected a chain, and yanked it
upward. Naturally it descended on the other side, as all
the chains went around and around his barrel. The ogret
went down with it, for he was chewing on it and refused
to let go. I suppose teething is rough for babies. I contin-
ued to haul until the ogret hung upside down below Pook's
belly. He didn't let go, for no one had knocked him on
the head. But when his head dipped into the frigid water,
he was annoyed, for no ogre likes to be coolheaded. He

roared.

The force of the roar sent froth shooting through the

river. The cold fish scattered in terror, and the water
warmed. I hauled down on the chain, and ogret came up
on the other side, until he was upright again, still chewing
on the link. We proceeded onward.

After a while, the cold fish came back, so I repeated
the performance and drove them away again. By the third
time they collected, we had reached the foot of the cliff
and were able to step out on upright land. That was a
relief!

Now we were in the Gap Chasm. The river crossed its
base arid went up the far wall. Came down it, that is. No
doubt we could walk up that the same way we had walked
down, but I thought I'd explore for an alternate route. I
didn't like having to dunk the ogret all the time, and didn't
want to be caught with cold feet halfway up if that trick
didn't work.

So I got on Pook, and we traveled west along the floor
of the chasm. I spied my trusty sword lying near the river,
beside the body of the flying dragon the ogret had back-
fired. I recovered my blade, welcoming it like an old friend,
washed it in the river, and watched bemusedly as the
bloodstained water flowed around the corner and up the
wall. Fascinating! Then I dried the sword on the hot hide
of the flying dragon and returned to Pook.

It was pleasant here, with green grass, bushes, and
patterns of racks and dragon tracks—

Dragon tracks?

I examined them more closely. Yes, these were the
spoor of a big dragon, one who evidently hunted here.
That made me a trifle nervous; I had already had enough
experience with dragons to last me the rest of my life—
a life that would not necessarily be long, if I encountered
one more dragon.

I was nervous with reason. Now Pook's ears perked,
and I heard it too: whomp-whomp-whomp! That was the
whomp of a low-slung, heavy-set dragon!

The sound was coming from the east, so we galloped
west. Soon I looked back and saw it—a horrendously
toothed monster of the steam variety. Whomping wasn't




82

Crewel Lye

the most efficient way to travel, but with a creature this
size, it was fast enough.

Pook put on a little more speed, and we stayed com-
fortably ahead of the dragon. That was one big advantage
to having a horse! But I saw that the chasm was narrow-
ing, and this made me nervous; suppose it dead-ended?
That was one hefty steamer back there; I didn't think I
could slay it. It would take a full-grown ogre to fight that

thing!

An ogre. I glanced back at the bundle of joy. No, that
was a baby ogre, formidable enough for his age, but only
a tiny fraction of the ugliness and power of a grown one.
Some qualities of ugliness take a lifetime to achieve. We'd
simply have to escape this dragon—which would be easy
enough if the Gap remained wide, and impossible if the
Gap became too narrow. I didn't really care to gamble
that the chasm would favor us.

I looked at the cliffs on either side. No hope there! We
needed a channel, a level path cut into the steep slope
that a horse could navigate. One trouble about this was
that anything a horse could travel, a dragon of this con-
figuration could also travel. Still, if we followed the path
and stayed ahead until we got out of the chasm—

This was the stuff of daydreams. There was no path
cut into the side.

The floor of the chasm became corrugated. There were
ridges in it, as if the walls had squeezed together and
wrinkled the base. These ridges gradually rose up until
they were as high as Pook. I didn't like this; we were
being channelized, and I preferred room to dodge the
dragon. If one of these little channels should dead-end,
it would slow us in scrambling out, and the dragon would

gain on us.

Pook sniffed. "You smell something?" I asked. "If it's

a way out, I'm for it!"

He came to an intersection of channels and swung left.
The walls of this channel rose up higher, up to my riding
head height. Then, abruptly, the channel ended.

Pook's hooves skidded, churning up turf, but he
couldn't stop in time. We spun halfway around and crashed

Crewel Lye

83

into the end. Dirt shook down as we righted ourselves,
and the ogret growled.

Then I saw a tunnel slanting back. It hadn't been visible
from the other side, as the entrance was narrow. And I
heard the approaching whomp of the dragon. "Get in
there!" I cried.

Pook squeezed in as the dragon whomped by. I was
afraid the dragon would turn and pursue us, so I urged
the ghost horse on into the darkness. As my eyes adjusted,
I was able to see because wan rays of light leaked in
through cracks. This tunnel was close to the surface, but
never quite emerging. Where did it go?

It twisted in wormlike fashion to the right and then
began to rise. Surely we would break out of the ridge any
momentnow! But we didn't.

Then I saw a larger crack and paused to peer through
it. There was the chasm—slightly below us! We were in
the wall!

We continued on up. The tunnel meandered up and
down and around, and sometimes formed large spirals in
the earth, but generally trended upward. I hoped it was
a way to the surface. It smelled dank, and there were
spider webs in the cracks, so it seemed long disused, but
it had to go somewhere. Wherever that was, that was
where we were going.

It took a long time, but our hope ascended as the tunnel
did, and we got there. The tunnel finally debouched into
a lesser crevice, one running at right angles to the Gap
Chasm but intersecting it well above the base, so that we
could not have entered here without using the worm tun-
nel. We followed this one south until it lost interest and
surfaced and we returned at last to the ordinary ground
ofXanth. This was the heart of what the lost map claimed
was ogre country—which was right where I wanted to
be.

Now all I had to do was deliver the bundle of joy to
its expecting family and proceed to Castle Roogna. I found
I had lost any interest I might have had in challenging a
mature ogre to heroic combat. If a baby ogre was this
horrendous, I had better stay away from a grown one!

Crewel Lye

84

But also, I no longer saw ogres as bestial monsters; be-
cause of the ogret, I realized that they had personalities
and families just as real people did. It's hard to condemn
any creature whose glare and growl has stopped a dragon

from consuming you.

But where was the ogret's family? Ogre country was
a broad, vast region; there could be many ogre tribes,
and many families within each tribe. How could I know
which one was the right one? Without that information,

how could I deliver this bundle of joy?

It was evening now, and I was hungry after the day's
adventure. So I foraged for food, finding some fruits for
the ogret. I didn't know what babies ate, but suspected
this one would eat anything. After all, if he teethed on

chains...

My assumption seemed to be correct. I offered him a

banana, and he grabbed it in one hairy mitt, squished it
in the center so that the pulp shot out at either end, and
jammed the remaining skin into his maw. He took an
apple, squeezed it so hard juice spurted, and gulped down
the skin and seeds with evident gusto. This sort of eating
was messy, but, of course, babies are messy eaters. I
gave him a milkweed pod, afraid that he would just squish
the milk all over himself, but this one he chose to swallow
whole. Finally I gave him a pomegranate, and he really
liked that; he knocked the granate on his head, cracking
the stone open, then picked out the red, juicy seeds, threw
them away, swallowed the stone, and burped up a seed
he had overlooked. He was really sort of cute in his hor-
rendous fashion.

Taking care of a baby, it turned out, was no problem

at all. My only concern was changing the diaper, but it
seemed the ogret hadn't existed long enough to process
food all the way through yet, so the diaper remained clean.
That was just as well, since I wasn't sure I had the strength
to take it away from him for cleaning.

I didn't worry about Pook, either. He could go off now
if he wished to, since I had gotten most of the way to
Castle Roogna and he no longer needed me to save him

Crewel lye                      85

from being taken over by elves or eaten by dragons or
whatever. We could get along without each other.

I leaned back against an acom tree. "What am I going
to do with you, ogre baby?" I asked rhetorically as I held
out a fruit-punch. Naturally the ogret punched it. Juice
exploded, and the baby crammed the husk into his big
mouth. He spat a seed at me that just missed my head
and embedded itself in the tree trunk behind me and
growled contentedly. The shudder of the seed-shock trav-
eled up the trunk and caused the branches of the tree to
shake, dislodging a corn, which thunked into the ground
before the ogret. He picked it up and chewed on it.

I saw a sparkle on him. What could it be? I reached
for it, but he grabbed for my hand, so I had to let it be.
But it was something he wore. What would an undelivered
baby wear?

What else except an address tag? I had to see that! But
the ogret wasn't going to turn it over voluntarily.

I fetched another fruit-punch and shoved it at his big
mouth. While he punched and chomped on that, I took
advantage of his distraction to grab the tag.

It was blank. Of course, I couldn't read, anyway, and
wouldn't if I could—barbarians take justified pride in
being illiterate—but that was a separate problem. How
was I to get an address from this?

I turned it over—and it flashed. One side was bright,
the other dull. When I turned it again, the brightside dulled
and the dullside brightened. When I held it flat, both sides
dulled. It was as if the thing were a mirror that reflected
light only when properly oriented—except there was no
source of light that accounted for the flash, just jungle.

But a magic mirror would use another type of light
source.

I smiled. Now I knew in what direction the ogret's
parents were. The flash pointed the way.

I cut off a length of vine and tied it to the ogret's bag
in such a way as to keep the baby inside while allowing
him to look and reach out. Then I passed the vine over
a sturdy branch and hauled the bundle of joy up about
halfway; that kept the baby off the ground, which was no

86                      Crewel Lye

safe place at night even for a tyke as horrendous as this,
and prevented him from going anywhere while I slept. As
an afterthought, I sliced off a section of ironwood and
passed it up. The hairy hand snatched it from my grasp,
and the teeth happily gnawed on its end. It was a decent
pacifier that should keep the ogret halfway quiet.

I climbed the tree, found a suitable niche, and settled
down to sleep. Pook continued to graze below; he wasn't
concerned about the spooks of the darkness, being a ghost
horse himself. In fact, the rattle of his chains probably

frightened away other spooks.

It was a quiet night, and I woke refreshed. Naturally
Pook was gone—but to my surprise, he returned when
he heard me stirring. "You mean you're tame now?" I
asked him, as I had before. He snorted derisively, as

before, but did not depart.

I found some rock candy and several more milkweed
pods for the ogret, and he chomped them up violently
and spat seeds at flying bugs, scoring an impressive num-
ber of times. I wondered whether the night had soiled his
diaper, but it seemed all right. Maybe it was a magic one,
self-cleaning. The storks seemed to have deliveries down
to a science, if that's not a meaningless term in Xanth.
That is, they are impossibly well organized. In real life,
of course, things are never scientific, and it's foolish to
believe that they can be. Only in a place like Mundania

would anyone try to hold such a view.

I loaded the bundle of joy back on Pook, not bothering
to untie the vine-rope, and mounted. Naturally, the ogret
found another section of chain to chew on. Babies are
always putting things in their mouth. But it kept him quiet.
In ogre country, silence is a special blessing.

We headed in the direction indicated by the tag-flash,
which was roughly southeast. We galloped through forest
and plain, over hill and valley, past cliff and cave, monster
and river. We passed curse-burrs, ant-lions, drifting magic-
dust, a colony of fauns and nymphs, harpies, and a mouth-
organ tree that tootled a low note of warning at us. It was

a pretty dull trip.

We made excellent time, for Pook liked to run, and in

Crewel Lye

87

the afternoon we reached the region of the ogres. I could
tell, because some trees were twisted into knots, others
were broken off at the base, and small ironwoods had
been bitten off at ground level; ogres liked to play with
things. I had heard somewhere that the ogres were mi-
grating north, but this seemed pretty far south to me;

maybe they were slow movers. Well, they could take
three centuries to move north if they wanted to; no one
was going to tell an ogre what to do! Just so long as they
never got too near to Fen Village.

I checked the ogret's tag for reorientation. It was glow-
ing like a little fire; we were very close. But now a problem
occurred to me. How was I to hand over the bundle of
joy without getting myself clobbered? I didn't want to
defend myself with my sword; what good was it to deliver
a baby to a dead mother? But I didn't want to be pulped
and eaten by the ogres, either.

I located the family domicile, which was a pile of trees
torn up by the roots and shaped into a crude nest. Ogres
never did things carefully when brute power sufficed. I
saw the ogress; she was almost twice my height and so
ugly that her puss made spots of gook dance before my
eyeballs. It was like a cross between the rump of a sick
sphinx and a squashed ant-lion. I could hardly look at
her, let alone go near her!

I worked up a notion. I suspended the bundle of joy
by the vine and swung it around in an arc. The ogret
chortled; he liked swinging through the air almost as much
as he liked chomping chain. Then I nudged Pook forward.

We came to the ogress. She was ripping a small tangle
tree from the ground and chewing on its flailing tentacles.
Expectant females were known to have odd tastes!

"Here it comes!" I cried and charged toward her, whirl-
ing the ogret. I passed her just out of reach, which was
a scary thing, because ogres have phenomenally long
reaches. The swinging bundle of joy whomped into her
belly, knocking her onto her back, her feet in the air, the
bundle atop her. The ogret's head popped out, and he
growled so horrendously that the remaining tentacles of
the tangler she held straightened out stiffly in sheer terror.




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Crewel Lye

The ogress let out an equally horrendous screech of
joy and clutched the ogret to her. Mother and son—what
awful music they made together! I galloped away, un-
molested. The delivery had been made!

Of course the male ogre spied me. He did not appear
to be completely pleased about the delivery, or maybe he
had simply decided that Pook and I would make an ex-
cellent repast. He lumbered after us, making surprising
speed because of the length of his stride. He was even
uglier than the ogress and ogret put together, incredible
as that sounds. Small birds, startled by our passage, flew
up, glimpsed his gross puss, and fell from the air stunned.
Bugs died in clouds where he passed. Trees quaked, their
leaves turning yellow around the edges. In the sky a cloud
looked down, saw him, and puffed into vapor. We zoomed
on; we didn't want to look at him, either.

When the ogre saw he couldn't catch us, he paused to
rip a boulder out of the ground and hurl it. I saw it coming
and had Pook dodge behind a great rock maple tree for
shelter. The boulder struck the tree and knocked off its
top. We sprang out of there as rocks and sand showered
around, for the maple had been shattered. What a brute
that ogre was! If this was his reaction to the happy oc-
casion of becoming a father, I'd hate to be near when he
was angry! I was sure the ogret would have a happy home

life.

We managed to lose ourselves in an intricate pattern
ofgeometrees, and the ogre gave up the pursuit. He wasn't
very smart, for ogres are as stupid as they are strong, and
that is the standard against which all other strength and
stupidity is measured. He gave up the chase and went
back to glower at the bundle of joy.

I hoped that when a.stork set out to find Bluebell Elf,
it would be able to deliver its bundle with less trouble
than this one had been! Certainly I no longer thought that
the storks had an easy job. In fact, it is all too easy to
believe others have easy times when you don't know any-
thing about their problems.

We walked back the way we had come, roughly north-
west, for I understood that Castle Roogna was somewhere

Crewel Lye                      89

in that region. At this slower pace the journey took a
couple of days, and I fought off a few minor threats along
the way—griffins, carnivorous plants, giant serpents,
hostile centaurs, that sort of thing, purely routine—and
I was beginning to get bored when at last the dusky towers
of Castle Roogna hove into view.
I had arrived!

Chapter 6. Hero's Challenge

Actually, Castle Roogna wasn't the easiest place
to approach. It was surrounded by a spreading orchard,
and the trees were unusual. I thought it was coincidence
or bad maintenance when I found the approach path
blocked by a massive branch. I guided Pook around it—
only to discover that it interlocked with the extended low
branch of another tree. So I guided Pook around the other
way, to circle the first tree—and there was another branch
tying into another tree. They were too low for Pook to
pass under, yet too fluffed out with brush for him to leap
over.

I paused and scratched my head. We could get by, of
course. But I marveled that the path to the castle could
have become so overgrown. Had no one passed this way
in the last fifty years? Surely the road to the capital would
be kept up! Did this mean the castle was deserted? In Fen
Village we had not had direct news from Castle Roogna
in a long time, but we assumed this was because we were
a minor backwoods hamlet. Now I wondered about the
frontwoods region; could it have gone out of business?

Now that I thought of it, I realized I had encountered no
men on my longjourney here. Goblins, elves, ogres, yes—
but these were only distantly related to men. Well, perhaps

90                      Crewel Lye

not too distantly related, in the case of the elves; Bluebell
had been most womanlike, divinely feminine, when the ad-
aptation-spell was in force. But where were the regular men
and women? I had understood there were human villages
scattered all around Xanth. Where were they?

Well, I would just have to get into Castle Roogna and
find out. I dismounted, drew my sword, and walked to
the center of the path. I picked my spot and used my
weapon like an axe, hacking into the wood.

I swear, that whole tree shuddered at my first blow.
There was a rain of twigs and leaves, and a groan as if
wind were making the trunk shift.

1 hacked again, at an angle, so that a wedge of bark
and wood flew out. The tree shuddered again, and reddish
sap oozed from the cut.

Pook neighed warning. I leaped back—and a solid
branch crashed down where I had been standing, the kind
they call a widowmaker. It was just as well I had avoided
it, since I wasn't married so couldn't leave a widow. Ap-
parently I had shaken the tree hard enough to dislodge
some deadwood. Apt name for it! I kicked it out of the
way and made ready to hack again.

But now, oddly, the branch was lower. In fact, it
touched the ground. It would be easy for Pook to step
over it. I considered hacking the rest of the way through
it, anyway, to clear the path, but dusk was drawing nigh
in the creepy way it had, and I wasn't sure what I would
find ahead. Best not to expend more time here now. So
I remounted Pook, and we stepped across and proceeded
onward.

As we passed under the looming height of another tree,
a great rock maple like the one the ogre had shattered,
Pook leaped ahead. Behind us, a rock crashed. No ogre
was present; the tree itself had bombed us!

I looked ahead. The trees beside the path stood close
and threatening, and I didn't trust them. The things of
the vegetable kingdom can be just as bad as those of the
animal kingdom when they take a notion to be.

I decided to use Standard Barbarian Approach Number
One: the direct threat of mayhem. I drew my sword again.

Crewel lye                      91

"Listen, you trees!" I yelled. "Whichever one of you drops
anything on me will get its branches lopped off or its trunk
girdled!"

There was no response. Holding the sword ready and
glaring about me like an ogre, I guided Pook forward. His
ears were turning this way and that, alert for the sounds
of treachery. But nothing happened, and soon we were
clear of this region. It seemed that my warning had suf-
ficed; I had cowed the trees. Don't tell me that violence
is the refuge of incompetence! It's the only language some
things understand. Of course, I am a barbarian warrior,
so there may be a modicum of self-interest in that state-
ment.

Now the orchard opened out, and Castle Roogna came
into view from fairly close range in the light of the setting
sun. I was ready to behold and marvel at its glories.

I stifled my disappointment. Castle Roogna was no
glowing edifice; it was a mildewed, rundown structure
whose gardens were overrun by weeds and whose moat
was a mass of brown goo. This was the capital of Xanth?
It was more like a witch-hag's den, or the fabled past
residence of the Zombie Master, who had lost his love
and turned himself into a zombie four hundred years be-
fore. What was wrong?

I rode up to the moat. The water was low, but closer
inspection showed that there was not much goo, just
brackish stuff. The moat monster was asleep. "Hey, wake
up, soursnoot!" I called indignantly to it. "Sleep on your
own time!"

The thing opened an eye, flicked its tail, and went back
to its slumber. How lax could castle security get?

Disgusted, I crossed the drawbridge, which was down
and unattended. The castle was the largest human-
constructed edifice I had seen, imposing despite its run-
down state, but I was saddened to see the authority of
man at such reduced level. I had expected to come to the
center of a flourishing empire; instead, it was little more
than my home village.

A woman appeared at the interior gate. She was middle-

92 Crewel Lye

aged and dumpy, and her apron was dirty. "Welcome,
Hero!" she exclaimed. "Do come in!"

"How do you know I'm a hero?" I demanded, not
completely flattered. Oh, I like flattery as well as the next
barbarian, but this seemed gratuitous and possibly insin-
cere. Also, flattery is much easier to accept from young,
pretty women than from old, dumpy ones.

"The prophecy," she explained.

"What prophecy?" I asked, somewhat aggrieved be-
cause I remembered the one made by the old elfess that
I was to be doomed by a cruel lie. I don't really like such
prophecies, so this was one I preferred not to be reminded
of.

"King Gromden will have to tell you that. Come on
in; we have supper waiting."

I shrugged and dismounted. It was strange that the
trees had tried to prevent my approach to the castle, while
people welcomed it. I remained on guard. But the pros-
pect of a good meal was tempting. "What about my horse?"
I knew Pook would be interested in the same kind of
protection he had had among the elves; he was helping
me in the wilderness, and I was helping him in civilization.

"We have a nice stall for him, with magic grain," the
woman said.

Pook's ears perked up. He whinnied. He knew a good
thing when he heard it.

Obligingly, the woman led us to a stall set in the wall.
Sure enough, there was a pan of grain there, and it looked
delicious even to me. Pook went to it and started eating,
and I saw that when he took a mouthful, the level in the
pan did not drop. It was magic, all right, and evidently
the grain was good.

"You'll be all right?" I asked him. "Remember, we
don't really know these people." But he ignored me; he
was happy. I wondered if he had not gotten too tame. It
was not good for an animal—or a barbarian—to be too
trusting of strangers, especially civilized strangers. Civ-
ilized people did not share the simple values of barbarians
and could be very devious.

"That's pretty concentrated stuff," I warned him. "If

Crewel Lye                      93

you eat too much, you could get sick—" He snorted,
sending oats flying; he knew what he was doing and didn't
appreciate my meddling. I suppose I wouldn't have ap-
preciated his cautions on women, sword-fighting, and such,
either. We human beings can be awfully arrogant in little
unconscious ways.

I followed the woman into the human region of the
castle. This was in better repair. The floor was clean, and
there were attractive tapestries on the walls. We came to
the banquet hall, and there a sumptuous repast was laid
out.

A man stood at the head of the table. He was old and
bald and fat, with straggly white whiskers and sunken
eyes. He wore a fancy robe and crown, so I realized he
was the King of Xanth. Naturally I greeted him with the
respect due his rank. "Hello, King," I said.

"Hello, Hero," he replied, batting an eye.

"Urn, King, I don't know about this hero business."

"It is the prophecy," he explained. "In our time of
need, a young, well-formed man of primitive lineage is to
appear, riding a pooka he has tamed. You are evidently
that man. Now sit down and eat, before it gets cold."

"Uh, sure," I agreed, disconcerted. That prophecy did
seem to have me nailed down pretty well, except that
Pook claimed he wasn't really tame. I suppose it's a mat-
ter of perspective. But if that prophecy was on target,
what about the elven one? I didn't like that thought, so
I flushed it from my mind.

I sat down, and the woman served us both. It seemed
to be dragon steak and fruit salad, with foaming brew
from a beer-barrel tree. Standard fare, except for the
dragon meat; I wondered how they had come by that.
But on occasion dragons suffered mishaps, and men were
able to snatch the bodies before some other creature did.
I was good and hungry, so I went to it.

"You're really supposed to wait till King Gromden
starts," the woman murmured in my ear as she poured
the beer.

I paused, mouth full. "Mf mmf?" I asked.

94

Crewel Lye

Crewel Lye

95

"Quite all right," the King said quickly, taking a mouth-
ful himself.

So we ate, and it was an excellent meal. The King
didn't eat much, so I polished off most of it, tucking a
spare dragon steak in my pocket for future consumption.
Then we settled back to talk. "You may not know it. King,
but I'm just a barbarian warrior," I said, burping vigor-
ously and wiping my mouth on the tablecloth.

"That is surprising," he remarked gravely.

"What's this hero business? I mean, so there's a proph-
ecy, but what do you need a hero for?"

"It would seem that we have a problem," Gromden
said. "We do need a hero, and evidently you are it."

"Well, it's true I'm looking for adventure. King. What
can I do for you?"

"You can undertake the Hero's Challenge."

"Sure, King. Just tell me where to go and what to do."
I yawned, as it had been a long day.

"Tomorrow," Gromden decided. "You are obviously
tired from your journey."

"Suits me. King," I agreed politely.

And so the maid woman showed me to an upstairs
room, complete with a fine big bed, mirror, and chamber
pot. I'd never had a room with such modern sanitary
facilities before! Soon I flopped on the bed and slept,
snoring roundly. I know I snored, because I heard the
echoes off the walls. I really preferred the forest, but I'm
adaptable; I can make do with civilized fixings when I
have to.

In the morning I woke to a peremptory knocking. I
bounced off the bed, set my hand on my sword, and went
to the door.

It was only the serving woman. "Something has come
up," she said hastily. "I won't be able to fix your break-
fast, but you can forage in the orchard."

"That's fine," I said. "What's come up?"

"Well—" She looked pained. "His Majesty is indis-
posed."

"Oh. You mean the old boy doesn't want to talk today?
Well, I guess I can wait."

She didn't answer. She just turned quickly away.
Women can be funny that way.

I used the chamber pot and dumped it out the window,
then went down and out to the orchard. Pook was already
there, grazing. He looked satisfied; that load of grain had
done him good. "How come you haven't run away?" I
asked him. "You've been sticking with me when you don't
have to, and you even served as part of the prophecy.
Are you sure you're not tame?"

He snorted derisively, as he always did, and continued
to graze. It occurred to me that even ghost horses might
get lonely, or maybe tired of rattling chains at night. While
he was with me, he had company and was admitted to
the territories of elves and men, where there was good
eating. Maybe it made sense to be tame, or to seem to
be.

I found plenty of ripe fruits on the trees and soon
fashioned myself a sandwich from slices of breadfruit and
cheesefruit. I saw snapdragon bushes, and so the mystery
of the dragon steaks was abated; it wasn't real dragon
meat. I didn't mind; it tasted the same, as far as I knew.
I could see that this had once been a well-kept grove, but
now it was clogged by weeds. There just didn't seem to
be much doing here at Castle Roogna. I remained dis-
appointed, though I hoped the King had a good adventure
for me.

When I went back inside, I decided to check on the
old boy. I found King Gromden's door with a crown
painted on it, so I pounded on that. There was no answer,
so I pushed it open and went in. "You here, King?" I
called politely. I didn't want anyone to think I was just
barging in.

There was a muffled sound from the bed, so I went
there. King Gromden was lying on his back and he didn't
look well at all. "Hey!" I exclaimed. "You're really sick,
King!"

His eyes ground open. "Astute observation," he whis-
pered.

"Hey, look, Grom, I'm sorry," I said. "I didn't know.




96

Crewel lye

Crewel lye

97

The wench just said you weren't talking. Is it something
you ate? Can I help?"

"I am old," he confessed, as if that weren't obvious.
"I won't live out the year. Perhaps not the month. My
wife and child deserted me years ago. You can help by
undertaking the challenge."

"Sure, King," I said. "I told you I would yesterday.
What is it?"

"It is—" He paused for a labored breath. Last the year
or the month? I wasn't sure he'd last the hour! He had
seemed okay the night before, but I guess these things
come and go when you're old. "It is the challenge for the
succession."

"The what?"

"The succession. When I die, there must be a new
King. The best Magician in the land. But there's a problem
I lack the strength to resolve—"

He faded out. "Yes, King?" I prompted, prodding him
with a thumb. "You say you have to do something before
you croak?"

"So there must be a contest," he whispered. "A contest
of magic, and—"

I waited, but he seemed to have lost consciousness.
Too bad; I really wondered what he had been trying to
tell me. A contest of magic sounded pretty interesting, but
I didn't see how I fitted in. I was, after all, just a barbarian;

I didn't know much about strong magic.

I went back to my room. There was the maid, looking
flushed. "Where have you been?" she asked severely.
"I've been looking all over for you."

"I was talking to the old boy," I said.

"You bothered the King?" she demanded as if shocked.
Women get shocked by the littlest things. "He's ill!"

"He sure is," I agreed. "You should have told me.
Don't you have a pill or spell for him?"

"It's past that stage," she snapped. "Now you go down-
stairs; Magician Yin is here to see you in the audience
chamber."

"Who?"

"Magician Yin. You'll see Magician Yang tomorrow;

they refuse to come together. They're very competitive."

I shrugged amiably. "Sure, I'll talk to anyone. I hope
the old boy feels better soon. Maybe he's constipated; if
you give him some prune juice—" But she was already
bustling away. I suppose she was one of those people who
didn't take kindly to good advice.

So I went downstairs and found Magician Yin. I re-
membered that the elves had said someone with a name
like that made the canned spells that could be so handy.
He turned out to be a medium-sized, medium-aged man
in white who really didn't look like much. Naturally I told
him so; barbarians believe in straight talk.

He smiled, for some reason reminding me of the way
the King had reacted to some of my comments. I just
don't understand the attitudes of civilized folk, I suppose;

it's as if they are piped in to some other kind of awareness
that passes me by. Women are like that, too.

"Let me show you what I do," Yin said. He reached
into a bag he carried and brought out a small globe. He
handed it to me. "Set it somewhere and invoke it," he
said.

"Oh, you mean it's a spell," I said.

"Yes, I make spells."

I set it on the table. "I invoke you, spell," I said.

Instantly the globe glowed. The light from it brightened
the whole room. "Say, that's pretty good," I said, turning
my eyes away from its brightness. "How long does it
burn?"

"Until nullified," he said.

"You mean till I tell it to quit?"

"No, you can not un-invoke my spells; they are per-
manent. It requires a counterspell to nullify it—one equal
and opposite. Some of my spells do lose strength as time
passes, though; it depends on their nature and complex-
ity."

"Okay, let's have a darkness spell," I said.

"I don't make negative spells," Yin said.

"Oh? Who does?"

"My twin brother. Magician Yang."




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Crewel Lye

Crewel Lye

99

"You mean there are two of you?" Now that Yin-Yang
reference was clarifying.

"Equal and opposite."

"Say!" I exclaimed, catching on. "You and he—the
contest? To see who's best?"

"Correct," Yin agreed. "One of us must be King after
Gromden expires. The strongest Magician. But we haven't
been able to determine which of us that is."

"But how do I fit in?"

"Obviously Yang and I can't just throw spells at each
other; they'd simply nullify one another and it would be
even. We need to discover whose magic is more effective
in practice. So we need a third party to use the spells for
some practical purpose. Then we can ascertain whose
spells are best."

"A third party," I said. "That must be me!"

"Correct," Yin agreed. "You will go on a quest, using
my magic to assist you and to facilitate your mission,
while Yang's magic opposes you. If you succeed, I will
win and be designated the next King of Xanth; if you
fail—"

"Um, what happens to me if I fail?" I asked.

"Well, it is simply a matter of fetching an object. If
you don't bring it back, then Yang wins and becomes the
next King. But I'm sure my spells will enable you to
succeed."

"I guess so," I agreed uncertainly. Equal and oppo-
site—it seemed to me the spells would still cancel one
another out, leaving no advantage for either side. But I
was the first to concede that a barbarian is not the one
to comprehend the nuances of magical interplay. "How
do I get the spells?"

"This bag is for you," he said. "Our agreement is that
I provide seven spells to assist you. Yang will set the
opposite seven spells to oppose you. Mine you can carry
with you; his will intercept you without warning. You
merely have to nullify his evil spells with my good ones
and complete the mission."

"Seems simple enough," I said, disappointed. I had
hoped for news of some dark tower defended by monsters

with a fair damsel to rescue and magic to blow up the
monsters and scale the tower wall. Ah, well; a mundanish
adventure is still an adventure, I suppose.

"It should be," he agreed, with a certain subtle civilized
nuance of the type I have already remarked on.

I looked into the bag of spells. It was filled with objects:

a little white shield, a figure of a monster, a skull, a stone,
a doll, a tangled length of vine, and a magic compass.
"But these are toys!" I protested.

Yin laughed. "Hardly! They are inert representations.
When you invoke them, they become full-sized and po-
tent."

I lifted out the little skull. "I don't need a full-sized
skull!"

"Allow me to explain. Because all Yang's spells and
mine are equal and opposite, they have similar forms in
many cases. King Gromden decided on the seven spell-
sets that would be used in this contest; he wanted to allow
a fair trial of magic, without endangering bystanders. Thus
we are permitted no deadly explosive spells, or basilisk
spells, or noxious contagious-disease spells. The seven
are fairly straightforward, and you should not have trou-
ble understanding them. His negative spells are black; my
positive ones are white. So when you encounter his black
skull, you must invoke my white skull. The black skull
brings death; the white one brings just the opposite, life.
They don't complete their effects instantly; you will have
a minute or so to invoke the life-spell when you feel the
death-spell taking hold."

"Oh." I reached into the bag for another spell. "Maybe
you better explain them all for me so I know exactly what
to do in my minute, each time." I brought out the little
white shield. "What about this?"

"The white shield counters the black sword. A sword,
of course, is negative; it exists for one purpose only, to
cut and kill. A shield exists to preserve limb and life, and
this shield, when invoked, will preserve yours."

It certainly made sense. I looked forward to seeing that
magic black sword; that was the kind of sword and sorcery
I understood. Maybe I'd take it on with my own sword




100 Crewel Lye

before I invoked the shield, just to see how good it really
was. I brought out the twisted vine. "This?"

"That is a representation of an eye-queue vine; note
the eyeballs braided into it." I had thought those were
beads, but now I saw that the tiny dots were pupils. "In
nature, the eye-queue dispenses temporary or even illu-
sory intelligence; the victim thinks he is far smarter than
he is. But my vine is real; put that on your head and you
will become far smarter than you are now, and the effect
will last for several days, slowly fading. Most spells don't
work well on the brain; that's why it can't be a permanent
enhancement. But you don't want to use it before you
encounter the black idiocy vine Yang has crafted, for you
want it at full potency to counter his. The two are even
at the start, but if you use mine two days before his strikes
you, you will be somewhat duller than you are now, for
several days, because the negative one will be fresher."

"I see the point!" I agreed. "I'm just a backwoods
barbarian, none too smart to begin with; I can't afford to
be any worse than I am."

"Precisely," Yin acknowledged politely.

I brought out the compass. "Now I've heard of these
magic gimmicks," I said. "Their little arrows always point
north. But I already know where north is, and if I don't,
I can find it by garden-variety backwoods magic, such as
the moss that grows on the north sides of trees. Why do
I need this?"

"This compass doesn't necessarily point north," he
explained. "It points to the object you need to find and
bring back to Castle Roogna. This spell you must invoke
first, so you will know where to go."

"And Yang's compass will point the wrong way?" I
asked. "I'll simply ignore it."

"Yang's compass will make this one point the wrong
way," he clarified.

"Well, I'll just remember the direction, then. I have a
good sense of direction, once I get my bearings; all bar-
barians do."

"Unfortunately, the object may move about, so you
can not track it without the compass until you know its

Crewel Lye                     101

nature. Also, it is not merely the compass needle that
points; it acts on your mind, so that you know in which
direction to go. The black compass will prevent you from
knowing where to go, even if you don't look at it."

"Oh," I said, getting slightly confused. "Then if the
two compasses cancel each other, how do I find the ob-
ject?"

"You must try to avoid the black compass until you
find the object. After that, the black compass can't hurt
you."

"How can I do that? If I know where Yang's spells
are, I'll avoid them all!"

"Unfortunately, again, you can't; they will be placed
in your path so that you will intercept them all in turn."

"I'll change my route!"

"No, your route has been divined by magic; Yang will
place the spells in your way. But nothing can be totally
predetermined. If you are alert, you will be able to spot
them and nullify them with mine before they cause you
unredeemable mischief. I am trusting you to do that." He
smiled thinly.

"Well, I'll certainly try," I agreed. "Will his spells be
out in the open?"

"Yes and no. He will place them in such a way as to
try to confuse you, so that you are likely to overlook them
until you come into range. Your mere presence will invoke
them. So you must be alert at all times. The key here is
not avoidance, since you can not avoid them, except per-
haps the black compass, but your readiness to nullify them
promptly. If you spy a black spell from a distance, you
can approach it deliberately with the white counterspell
in hand. So your state of readiness will be critical."

"I will be ready. Barbarians are always alert to their
surroundings." I was getting to like this challenge, after
all.

I drew out the monster figurine. "This?"

"Yang's spell will summon a horrendous monster, one
that will surely destroy you if not dealt with promptly.
My spell-will banish that monster, so you won't have to
fight it at all."

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Crewel lye

"Oh," I said, disappointed. "I like fighting monsters."
"I assure you, you won't like this one," he said. "It's

the tarasque."

"Never heard of it," I said disdainfully.
"Just keep an eye out for the black spell, and keep this
white one handy. Don't use it on any routine monster."
I brought forth another spell, the doll. "This?"
"That particular set is one of the most insidious. Yang's
spell will exchange your identity with that of the person
or creature nearest you at the moment it is invoked. It
won't hurt either of you specifically, but I doubt you'd
be pleased if it wasn't nullified. For example, if the nearest
creature is a fruit fly, you would find yourself in the body
of the fruit fly, and it would have your man's body. My
spell will restore both of you to your original bodies—
provided you make sure they are adjacent when you in-
voke it."

"Urn, yes, I wouldn't want to be a fruit fly," I agreed.
I fished out the last spell, the stone. "And this falls on

my head?"

"Not exactly. The black stone spell will cause you to
become stone; the white one will return the stone to flesh.
Both have a substantial overkill factor."

"Huh?"

"This one is powerful enough to turn several barbarians
and their horses to stone, if allowed to run unchallenged.
So the other can convert a large amount of stone to flesh."

"How does it know the difference between natural stone
and converted stone?" I asked. "Is the type of stone dif-
ferent?"

"The spell merely acts on the closest stone to it. Since
you will be invoking it as you are turning to stone, that
will be you. Only you can invoke the white spells; that
is a necessary safeguard."

I pictured a mimic-bird flying by, squawking, "Invoke!
Invoke!" and bringing to life my entire bag of spells at
once. I nodded; it was indeed a necessary safeguard. They
had worked out the details of this challenge pretty well.

I took a deep breath. "So if I just keep this bag of spells
handy, I'll be able to counter each of Yang's spells and

Crewel Lye                     103

complete the mission. That seems straightforward
enough."

"Well, there are always unexpected details of situa-
tion," he said, "and also complications of terrain."

"I'm a barbarian. I'm used to handling terrain."

"And on the return trip you will be burdened with the
object. That may distract you. You must be especially
careful once you have the object, for the difficulty of the
challenge may increase exponentially then."

"There is that," I agreed, wondering what "exponen-
tial" meant. I assumed it was just a highbrow Magician
term for "a lot." "Just what is this object I'm supposed
to fetch?"

Yin looked moderately embarrassed. "I'm afraid I am
not permitted to tell you that. King Gromden decided that
some things should be held as surprises to make the con-
test more, er, sporting. I have informed you of the nature
of the spells and counterspells, giving you a certain ad-
vantage; some unknowns are necessary to counterbalance
that. Perhaps Yang will tell you more. However—" His
face darkened. "You must not believe everything Yang
tells you. I am a Good Magician; he is an Evil Magician.
Therefore I must always use my magic positively and
speak the truth. He uses his magic negatively, and..." He
let the words fade out.

"You mean he always lies? Then I'll just believe the
opposite of what he says."

Yin looked further embarrassed. "It is not quite as
simple as that. Truth is not necessarily the opposite of
Untruth. For example, you could ask a liar what direction
the nearest pillow-bush was, and he would tell you it was
east when actually it was south; if you went the opposite
way, you would go west and still be deceived."

"Well, at least I'd know one direction it wasn't—east.
That would be some help."

"Not necessarily so. Yang does not lie, precisely; he
seeks to deceive. If he can best deceive by indirection,
or even by telling the truth in a way you will doubt, he
will do that. Thus the bush might indeed be east—the
one direction you would not go after asking him."

104 Crewel Lye

I began to appreciate the ramifications. The civilized
folk had evidently developed lying into a sophisticated
art! We barbarians were straightforward liars, when we
lied at all.

"I really would prefer that you not talk to Yang at all,"
Yin said. "But the rules of this contest give us equal
access. So all I can do is warn you not to trust him, either
to speak the truth or to lie, for he will surely mislead you
to his advantage. He is insidiously clever."

I shrugged. "Thanks for the warning. Magician. I'll be
careful."

He smiled. "Do be that. And farewell. Hero; I hope
to see you again at the conclusion of the mission."

"Sure thing, Yin." I left him and took the bag of spells
to my room.

The rest of the day was frankly dull. The serving woman
fixed me a decent lunch and hurried off to attend to the
sick King. I amused myself by exploring the castle, which
was big and empty. In one upstairs room was the magic
tapestry, showing scenes of Xanth during the last four
hundred years. There had been a long succession of kings,
some of them pretty good. I rather liked King Roogna,
who had supervised the construction of the castle; he had
used centaur labor, and Evil Magician Murphy had tried
to interfere, but a barbarian had arrived to help King
Roogna. Trust a barbarian to show up in the nick of time,
when the civilized folk couldn't manage! I was of that
heroic mold myself, as I may have mentioned.

But somehow it seemed that the power of man had
faded in Xanth, slowly over the centuries, and the once
far-reaching activities of the castle had contracted, until
today old King Gromden was about all that remained.
Gromden meant well and was a good man, but people
lacked confidence in him. Maybe it was that there just
weren't enough human folk left in Xanth to hold back the
jungle.

The woman appeared. "The King asks for you," she
said disapprovingly.

I went to Gromden's room. He was sitting up in bed,
evidently somewhat recovered, though he did not look at

Crewel Lye                     105

all spry. "Feeling better. King?" I asked brightly. "Maybe
the prune juice helped?"

"My malady comes and goes," he said, "and each siege
is to a new nadir. It derives as much from the soul as
from the flesh. How I wish my wife and daughter were
here! But—" He shrugged with deep regret. "A man can
pay a lifetime for a moment's folly."

"That's for sure. King!" I agreed. "I remember when
I found this tangle-seed and thought I'd plant it in our
garden—"

"I summoned you in this period of my lucidity, because
it may not last long. I have something important to tell
you that I fear you will not believe."

"I'm just a barbarian. King," I reminded him. "I can
believe almost anything."

He smiled tiredly. "That is surely why the prophecy
named you for this mission; you have no preconceptions.
But I fear you are being deceived unnecessarily, so simple
fairness requires me to set some things straight."

"Sure, King." I nodded. "What's crooked?"

"This contest between Yin and Yang is not precisely
what it seems. It is not really a trial to determine which
Magician shall assume the throne of Xanth after me, but
rather which one shall serve the other."

"Isn't that the same thing?" I asked. "The one who
loses doesn't get to be King, so—"

"No, not the same," he asserted. "And that object you
are supposed to fetch has certain qualities that will greatly
complicate your task. This is no simple matter, Barbarian!
Yin and Yang don't realize that I know any of this, but—"

"How do you know it. King?" I asked.

He smiled again. "I see that you, like they, question
my remaining mental acuity. Indeed, I found the truth
difficult to believe myself. Perhaps it will be more con-
vincing if I demonstrate how I ascertained my informa-
tion."

"I guess so," I conceded doubtfully. The old boy did
seem a little confused. But that was what happened to
sick people sometimes.

106 Crewel Lye

"If you would be so kind—fetch me an object from
the grounds."

"Sure King," I agreed amicably. Might as well humor
him. I turned my back, left the room, went down and out,
and looked about. What would be suitable? A fruit? May-
be a prune? A stick of wood? No sense going to a lot of
trouble, since he'd probably be asleep when I returned.

I spied a chip of stone, fallen from the castle wall. That
should do. I picked it up and went back inside.

King Gromden remained awake. I handed him the chip.
He held it before him, staring at it. "This is a fragment
of stone from the outer wall of this castle," he said. "It
was quarried by centaurs and hauled to this site four
hundred years ago."

"What do you know," I remarked. It really didn't take
any magic talent to know that; all the castle rocks were
quarried and hauled in at that time. If that wasn't common
knowledge, the magic tapestry showed it to anyone willing
to watch, as I had been.

"The centaur who hauled this particular stone had a
speckled hide and gray tail," he continued. "He struck
one hoof against a root and issued a bad word, for which
he was duly reprimanded by his superior on the crew."

"Sure," I agreed noncommittally, convinced he was
making this up.

"Later, before the castle was finished, the goblins and
harpies attacked," he continued. "A harpy hen laid an egg
that detonated close by, cracking the block, but the mortar
held it in place. Then the goblins stormed the castle, and
their dead piled up against the wall; the eyeball of one
was wedged against this chip, somewhat to the chip's
disgust."

I chuckled obligingly. I'll say this for the old boy: he
could spin a yam! Maybe not as fancy as the yarns of the
tapestry, but still good enough.

"Then the goblin bodies were melted down, and some
of the stain soaked into the chip. And it endured that way
for centuries, until recently a bird brushed it, and the chip
was finally dislodged and fell to the ground. There is a
spell on this castle to keep it in repair, but age and neglect

Crewel Lye                     107

may have weakened that spell. You picked up the chip
between the wall and the moat, near a yellow flower."

"Hey, I did!" I exclaimed, remembering. "How'd you
know that. King?" For there had been no window cov-
ering that region; he could not have peered out and seen
me.

He smiled. "It is my talent, the magic of Magician
caliber that made me eligible to assume the throne. I can
hold any object and see and hear its history. That is how
I discovered the deception of Yin and Yang. A button fell
from Yin's clothing; I picked it up and read it to determine
whose it was, and found that it was his, but also—"

I glanced at him. He was looking worse; the effort of
sitting up and talking was bad for him. "I'd better let you
rest now. King," I said.

"But I must warn you," he protested weakly. "It is
important for you to complete this mission, for Yin—"

He coughed and spat up some phlegm, and his words
were choked off. I didn't want him to pass out while trying
to talk to me, so I beat a hasty retreat. Barbarians don't
really understand illness. "You sleep it off. King," I said
at the door. "I'll talk to you again tomorrow."

It certainly was dull here at the castle. I was eager to
get going on the challenge; at least that promised to be
halfway interesting.

Next day Magician Yang showed up. He wore black
cloak and looked forbidding, but his features were just
like Yin's. "I can see you are twin brothers," I said ob-
servantly.

"Naturally," he agreed, unsmiling. "We two represent
the Good and Evil aspects of magic. Let's get on with
this. Where are the spells?"

"Huh?" I replied, perhaps not displaying my full in-
telligence, such as it was.

"Yin's spells, yokel. I need to check them so I know
which ones to match."

"Oh." I had somehow thought he knew which spells,
since the King had specified them in advance. Evidently
I had misunderstood. I went to my room and brought
down the bag.

108

Crewel Lye

Yang grabbed it and opened it and peered in. "The
usual garbage," he said. "Yin never was one for much

imagination."

"I think King Gromden selected the—"
"Him too. Dullards, all! No wonder Xanth is sliding
to the depths in a basket case." He reached in and hauled
out the eye-queue vine. "I can match this idiot-string read-
ily."

"Well, sure, since your spells are equal and opposite."

"And this airhead," he said, bringing up the white skull,
then dropping it back into the bag with a clunk. "And this
freak." Now he had the white monster figurine. "And the
old magic shield gig, yet! Yin's got no spunk at all!"

"Well, as I said, the King—"

"And as I said, him too! Now this one had possibili-
ties," he said, bringing up the doll. "You ever been in
someone else's body, bumpkin?"

"No, not exactly that way—"

"And the stone-age ploy," he continued, holding the
white stone. He peered at me. "Take my advice, would-
be hero; save yourself a lot of grief. Take a dive!"

"A what?"
"Just go out there and don't come back. Vanish from

the scene."

I had trouble grasping this. "But the mission—"
"The mission is to determine whether Yin or Yang
should be the next King. If you fail to bring back the
object, that determination will be made. Yang will be

King."

"But—not even to try—"

"Well, you have two ways to go, ignoramus. You can
go out there and get yourself killed, or you can go out
there and take it easy and survive. Either way, the result
of the contest will be the same—but your own situation
will differ. You have to consider your personal stake in

this."

"I couldn't—I said I'd make an honest try, and—"

"You fool!" he cried indignantly. "Don't you know the
contest is rigged? You can't bring back the object! The
whole deal is a cruel lie, set up to appease the masses."

Crewel Lye                     109

Masses? I wondered where they were. "But King
Gromden said—"

"That old fool is in his dotage, simpleton, and sick to
boot! Look how Castle Roogna has deteriorated under
his administration. We don't need more scandal in the
castle. It's past time for a strong hand to take the reins
and restore the throne to its proper glory."

There was some sense to that. "But Magician Yin
could—he has similar magic—"

"Yin is constrained by his foolish notions of ethics. He
places the means before the ends. No person can accom-
plish anything if he worries more about how he does it
than what he is doing. That's why Yin is doomed to lose
this contest."

I have never regarded myself as a clever man, and I
saw right away I was outclassed here. I couldn't argue
with someone as smart and ruthless as Yang. Still, I had
stupid doubts. "I don't know—"

"Of course you don't, rube," Yang agreed. "So I will
tell you. When I am King, I will reward you handsomely.
Do you like nymphs? I will give you a barrel of nymph
spells, each nymph good for a day and willing to do any-
thing you say. Do you like food? I will arrange a feast
every night. Creature comforts? The most comfortable
creatures shall be yours."

"—whether I should accept the mission," I continued
doggedly, "if I'm not even going to try. If I didn't know
better, I'd suspect you were trying to bribe me to—"

"The light dawns at last, oaf! What is your price?"

"Besides, it sounds like a good adventure, and that's
what I really came here for." I certainly didn't much like
Yang!

"What kind of adventure is it to get your head bitten
off by a monster? Dead men can't enjoy life!"

Actually, for me there was life after death; evidently
he didn't know that. In his arrogance he hadn't bothered
to check out my talent. I decided not to mention it. "Yin
said you would try to deceive me."

Yang laughed loudly. "How do you know he's not

110

Crewel lye

lying, hick? Naturally he doesn't want you to listen to

we!"                                                ;

He had a point. Now I didn't know whom to believe.
"I guess I'd just better go ahead with the mission, and do

my best, and see how it turns out."

"Pool!" Yang dropped the bag of spells on the floor    ;

and stalked out.                                        !
I wished I could get some good advice, but there was

no one with any sense around here except maybe the
King, and he hadn't heard this conversation and might
not believe it. Then I remembered his talent. He could
evoke the dialogue or whatever from a button on my

clothing; then he would believe!

I went to his room, but he was asleep, and I didn't
want to wake him. He might go into another coughing fit.
Well, what could he have said, anyway, except for me to
do the mission as planned. Actually, he might already    ;

know about Yang's dishonesty, for he had been trying to
tell me something the day before. Now, maybe, I knew   |
the nature of his warning: that Yang would try not merely   j
to deceive me, but also to corrupt me. Fortunately, I was

not clever enough to be corrupted.

I

Chapter 7. Mountain of Flesh

I set out the next morning ready for action, with
the bag of spells tied to Pook. I had my good sword and
a knife 1 had picked up at the castle. The woman had also
found a good sturdy replacement bow and a quiver of
arrows in the armory. I had plucked some cherries and
pineapples from the trees of the orchard, as well as some
edible fruit to consume along the way. I wore light body
armor consisting of leather strips magically pickled and

Crewel Lye                    111

hardened. There was a lot of good stuff at Castle Roogna;

too bad there were not more people to enjoy it.

I was at last starting my adventure! This buoyed my
spirits, despite the aspects that puzzled me, and I feared
that it would not be as exciting as I hoped. All I knew of
the object I had to fetch was that it was vaguely northwest
of Castle Roogna, but that was enough to get me started.
I could invoke my finder-spell anytime, but preferred to
wait until I had passed the loser-spell I knew was in my
path. Then I could nullify the black spell completely, hop-
ing enough of the white one was left over to enable me
to pinpoint the object when I reached its general area.

Was it possible that all the evil spells were in a straight
line to the object? In that case, I would be better off
meandering somewhat, so as to avoid most of them. Then
I could invoke the white compass when I was close and
nail the object quickly. After that, it wouldn't matter what
the black compass did; it would be too late. So my not
using the white spell was like saving my last arrow until
well within range of the target—plain common sense.

Except that Yin had assured me that I could not avoid
the black spells; they would be set in my predetermined
path. If I meandered, they would be set along that mean-
der. I found this difficult to accept. After all, I could keep
changing my course randomly. But magic has strange as-
pects that are beyond the comprehension of louts like me.
I'd just have to see what happened.

The band of aggressive trees tried to give me a hard
time, as they had done before; I wondered why they didn't
like me, since I was here to do some good for Castle
Roogna and have a nice adventure. Maybe they, like Yang,
figured I'd fail. But in that case, their obstruction just
made it more likely that I would fail. At least they should
be glad to see me going; they could oppose me again on
the way back in, if it were just me they didn't like. This
made no sense. But what can you expect of blockheads?
So I just made my little statement and held my sword
aloft, and Pook charged through. The branches trembled
with rage, but did not strike. Sometimes force is the only
feasible alternative, especially for those who possess it.

Crewel Lye

112

We trotted along, making good time, and soon came
to a range of mountains. I pondered whether to go around
them, but I didn't know their extent and was afraid I
would have to go far out of my way and perhaps lose
track of my general direction. So I took the simple bar-
barian course—over the top.

Naturally, the obvious course is not necessarily the

easiest one, as the firebird discovered when he tried to
romance his reflection in the water and got his flame
doused. But it was in the middling-rear of my mind that
no one would have expected me to be dumb enough to
go right over the top, so maybe there would be no evil
spells there. This was really a test case—whether I could
do the unexpected and mess up the predetermined path.
If I couldn't be smart, I could at least be cunning.

The slope got steeper as we went, until Pook was puff-
ing, and I had to dismount to ease his burden. At one
point I had to unloop one of his chains and throw it around
a tree trunk above us, so I could pull on it and help heave
him up. Actually, those chains were one reason he was
struggling; they added a fair amount of weight to his climb.
But we persevered and got so high by dusk that the Land
of Xanth spread out below us, its lakes and jungles a
lovely patchwork. One lake turned brighter and larger as
I looked at it, trying to impress me; the inanimate can be
just as vain about its appearance as any animate creature.

Unfortunately, I could not see what was ahead of us,
to the northwest, because the remainder of the mountain
blocked that off. But I knew we'd see it once we crested.
That should be as good as a map; maybe I'd even see the
object, whatever it was. But would I recognize it?

The mountain went up and up. It certainly hadn't looked
this big from below! The thing seemed to be drawing itself
up, trying to outlast us, making this its own special con-
test.

Well, next time I'd go around and risk the bad spells!

But having started this course, I wasn't about to quit now.
As I may have remarked, barbarians can be oinkheaded
on occasion, and I was typical of the breed.

The air grew cool, then cold; we were entering the

Crewel Lye                     113

snow region. Sure enough, a flock of snow-birds wheeled
in the sky, coming to investigate us. I didn't know much
about snow-birds, but didn't trust them, and neither did
Pook. We moved faster, seeking to avoid them, but they
came over and buzzed us. White powder drifted down
from their wings. Then they were off and out of sight.

"No trouble after all," I said, relieved. "Let's find a
spot to camp for the night. I'll have to make a fire so we
won't freeze."

But Pook laid back his ears and plowed on up the cold
slope. "Hey, what's the matter?" I demanded. "We've
got to stop before the ground gets frozen and there's no
brush for a fire. See if you can sniff out a level section,
or maybe even a small cave."

Still he traveled, not slowing or searching at all. I began
to get annoyed. "Now look, Pook, I'm tired and I want
to rest, and you're not that fresh either—"

Then I noticed that snow was falling. But there was
no cloud; the snowflakes were forming in the air. As I
watched, they expanded, becoming wonderfully large and
intricate disks, each one different from all its companions.
I caught one by its rim, and it was the span of my spread
hand, with six spokes radiating out from a hexagonal cen-
ter, each branching and rebranching into finer networks,
until the rim was another finely wrought hexagon. I mar-
veled at the beauty and symmetry of it, when it melted
in my hand and fell apart. I was unhappy at the loss of
such a wonderful artifact; to stifle the unbarbarian tear
coming to my eye, I grabbed another snowflake and con-
centrated on it. This one was like the finest doily ever
crafted, in all ways absolutely delightful. But in a moment
it, too, dissolved and was lost.

Now the snowflakes became more ornate. They were
no longer disks; they were prisms, reflecting and diffract-
ing the slanting sunbeams so that rainbow hues radiated
out in spokes of their own, forming larger hexagons of
colored light that filled the air before me. The light-flakes
became so solid I thought I could climb upward by grasp-
ing their interlocking spokes, but my hands merely changed
colors when I reached, finding nothing.




114

Crewel Lye

Crewel Lye

115

Ahead was a crevice in the mountain, too wide to leap
across, its depths too deep and awful to contemplate. But
the snowflakes multiplied and interlocked to form a bridge
across it, and I guided Pook there.

He came to the brink and balked. I kicked his sides,
urging him forward. "It's a perfect bridge," I told him.

"It's a hallucination, you fool!" he told me.

"How can you be sure of that?" I argued.

"This is all a form of illusion," he insisted.

"Give me some proof, mule-head!"

"It has to be illusion, because in real life I can't talk
human speech," he said.

I pondered that, considered it, and cogitated a bit on
it. "Could be," I opined at last. "But what's the cause?"

"That snow the snow-birds dropped on us, of course.
That's why I tried to get out of it. The stuff spaces out
your mind and makes you see and hear things that just

aren't there."

"You mean there aren't any big snowflakes, and you're

not talking to me now?"

"That is precisely what I mean, lunkhead. The only
big flake around here is you. Now sit tight while I get us
out of it." He picked his way on up the mountain. "Real
snow cancels out the mind-bending snow. The cold freezes
it, I think. No matter what you see, don't get off my back."

"Why doesn't it zonk out your mind, too?"

"Don't be silly, barbarian. I'm just an animal."

I decided he knew better than 1 did. "Actually, it's sort
of fun," I said.

Pook just snorted and plowed on.

Now the flakes converted to snow-fairies, dancing on
the breeze. They leaped, they twirled, they pirouetted
most prettily. One of them beckoned to me and she re-
minded me of Bluebell and the dancing elven maidens; I
started to dismount, but Pook gave a shake that jolted
my memory, aggravatingly, and I desisted.

Slowly the colorful images faded, and the mountain
slope was revealed in its grim reality, all rock and scrub
and patches of genuine snow. I looked below, at the crev-
ice, and saw there was no bridge across it. I would have

plunged into it, to my doom or great discomfort, had not
Pook cautioned me about the illusion spawned by the
snow-dust. The next snow-bird I saw would get an arrow
through its body!

Suddenly I recalled the elf crone's prophecy: that I
would be doomed by a cruel lie. That snowflake bridge
had been a lie, all right! Thanks to Pook's horse sense, I
had avoided that doom.

I glanced at Pook. "Thanks, ghost horse," I said "You
saved me from my own folly back there. You were more
sensible than I."

Pook twitched an ear affirmatively and kept climbing.

"But since you can't talk—how did you warn me? I
mean, if I just imagined you spoke to me in human
words—"

The horse continued moving.

I sighed. "Well, I don't quite know how much of what
is real, but I'm sure you saved me, Pook. So I guess I
can call you tame now."

Pook snorted, insulted.

"Sorry," I apologized. "But if you're not tame, then
why do you stay with me?"

The horse merely shrugged, rattling a chain.

Then I had about as bright a notion as a barbarian was
capable of at that hour of the day. "Pook, if I may not
call you tame—may I call you friend?"

He nickered affirmatively. I had finally caught on!

When Pook was satisfied that we were secure from
hallucination, he stopped. We found an indentation, not
really a cave, but enough to shelter us from the cutting
wind, and I gathered straggles of half-buried brush and
made a little fire. Pook was able to find dry grass and
lichen under the snow for his supper, while I consumed
my rations. It didn't seem like much of a meal for him,
but I suppose he was used to that sort of thing.

The fire sank to embers and we settled for the night.
Pook lay down, and I curled up next to him, glad for the
heat of his body. I didn't worry about watching for ene-
mies; what man or monster would climb way up here,
past the snow-birds and snow-dreams, just to bother a




116

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lone man and a horse? Anyway, I slept lightly, and so did
Pook. We would be all right.

I believe I have remarked before on the weakness of
barbarian reasoning. This was demonstrated again this
night. A sound would have roused us both, but there was
no sound—not until it was almost too late.

Pook became aware of it first; his nose was more alert
than mine. He didn't move; he puffed a nostrilful of warm
air in my ear. I woke, wondering what he was up to—
and felt the chill slithering across my ankle.

I knew instantly what it was: a snowsnake. How utterly
stupid of me to forget about them! They were snow-white
and snow-cold and lived in snow; it was difficult to see
or hear them in their habitat. But they were poisonous

and they liked fresh meat.

We were in trouble. I lay there, feigning sleep the way
Pook was, assessing the situation. One bite would prove
fatal for me, and probably three bites for Pook. I would
recover in due course, assuming the feeding snakes left
enough of me to be reconstituted, but Pook wouldn't. So
I had to prevent him from getting bitten.

First I needed to know how many snakes there were
and exactly where they were. Then I needed to eliminate
them. First I had to deal with the ones who were most
ready to strike, then the others.

I cracked open an eye. That didn't help; it was too
dark to see. So I listened and felt. That didn't help either;

they were silent, and once the one passed my leg, I had
no way to track it. But I knew the snakes wouldn't wait
long before striking; they would be eager to feed. They
would pick their targets, and—

Very well; we would have to shoot for double or noth-
ing. "Roll!" I cried suddenly.

Pook was ready. He rolled while I leaped up, grabbing
for my sword. I heard a hiss; Pook had squished a snake
under his crunching chains.

I Jumped for the leftover fire, sweeping my sword point
through it. Embers and coals flew about, brightening an-
grily as they felt the cold air. One struck a snake; I heard

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117

the hiss of anguish and I chopped at the sound. There
was a violent thrashing in the dark; I had scored.

Now the snakes were all carelessly active, frightened
by the glowing coals among them. Probably they would
have moved on us earlier if that fire hadn't been there;

they had waited till it was low and then been cautious.
Not cautious enough! I struck at every hiss I heard, and
my reflexes were barbarian-swift, and my blade sliced
through reptilian flesh. In a moment or so, I had cut up
everything that made a sound.

I returned to the fire and tossed on fresh brush. In a
moment it blazed up, and I saw what I had wrought. There
were four dead snakes—one squished, three cut to pieces.
Each was about man-length, too small to be much op-
position by day, but big enough to do a lot of damage by
night, especially considering the poison. If any of them
survived, they had fled.

Pook returned. He had rolled downward and bounced
to his feet. He did not seem to have been bitten; his chains
had protected him, and, once he rolled free, all the snakes
had been in my area.

We had won through unscathed, but neither of us was
inclined to lie down again. Even the slightest scathe by
one of those snakes would have been a whole lot of trou-
ble. I stoked the fire, and Pook stood near it, almost
astride it, and I mounted him. Thus only his four feet
were vulnerable, and they were close to the fire. But I
held a cherry in my hand, just in case; if anything ap-
proached, it would get bombed. We spent the rest of the
night like that, sleeping on guard. And the snowsnakes
did not return.

In the cold morning we ate again and resumed our
journey. The pieces of snowsnake near the fire had melted,
of course; there was nothing left of them. It really hadn't
been much of an adventure, just an inconvenience; I would
rather have had undisturbed sleep. Maybe I just didn't
have the right attitude.

Another cutting wind came up; that kind of wind seemed
to like the upper reaches. I wrapped my cloak tightly
about me for warmth and kept my gloved hands in toward

118 Crewel Lye

my belly. Mainly, I depended on Pook for heat; I couldn't
have made this trek without him.

By noon we reached the crest. Not the peak; there was
no point in going right over that, as we weren't interested
in height, just in getting past. We headed for the lowest
notch in the ridge that ran from peak to peak in this range.
Wind cut through it with extra effort, stirring up powdered
snow; I was reminded of the snow-birds' snow and shud-
dered, but I knew it wasn't that. I would be glad when
we got down to good old-fashioned garden-variety tangle
trees and hypnogourds again!

But as we passed through the pass, I saw something
lying in the snow, black against white. I got down and
picked it up. It was a black compass, just like the white
one I had in my bag of spells. It flashed.

Suddenly I felt dizzy. "Where am I going?" I asked
plaintively. "What am I looking for?"

But in a moment I remembered. "I'm looking for an
object to settle a claim for the new King of Xanth. But I
have absolutely no idea where it is. The loser-spell has
nullified my sense of location."

And then I said: "Now's the time to invoke the finder-
spell so I can restore my sense of location. Or whatever.
That way I'll know where I'm going."

Pook did not protest, so I decided that made sense.
That black compass had really reamed out my mind, leav-
ing me fundamentally uncertain. I don't like having my
mind messed with.

I dug in the bag and brought out the white compass.
"Invoke!" I quavered at it.

Something strange happened. The snow on which I
stood began to melt. Well, no, not exactly melt, but it
was turning slushy. No, not exactly that, either. The
ground beneath the snow was softening.

How could that be? I scraped away the snow and saw
that it was bare rock below and that the rock had become
pale pink flesh. Was this mountain in fact a monster crea-
ture? It couldn't be; I knew the nature of mountains, and
this was definitely a mountain. Yet the rock below me
had become flesh.

Crewel lye                     119

The flesh spread rapidly outward. I saw the snow sink-
ing in an expanding ripple, marking the progress of the
transformation. The whole mountain was turning to living
flesh!

Pook neighed nervously. He was balancing on the
spongy surface uncomfortably and wanted to get off it.
But I retreated cautiously from the fringe of the conver-
sion, wanting to understand this phenomenon to whatever
extent my primitive barbarian mind was able, so I wouldn't
fall into some trap of magic. Why should the mountain
turn to flesh just when I was invoking unrelated magic?

I looked down at the white compass I had invoked,
only to discover that both it and the black one had dis-
appeared, expended. But I still had no idea where the
object was. Then I reached into the spell-bag and pulled
out the white stone. Wasn't that the spell that was sup-
posed to turn stone back to flesh? Then why had it hap-
pened with the compass?

I wasn't bright, but I wasn't completely dull, either.
"Yang!" I exclaimed. "He switched the spells!"

Pook neighed again. He was right; we had to get off
this mountain of blubber! "I don't know where we're going,
but maybe you do!" I cried. "Go for it!" I jumped onto
his back and hung on.

He started off down the mountain's north slope. His
hooves skidded as the snow made the flesh beneath slip-
pery. I saw that the transformation had now reached to
the peak, and it was quivering like jelly. Indeed, the whole
mountain was quivering, as its solid bedrock turned soft.
Magician Yin had not been kidding about overkill on the
spells; this one was strong enough to convert a hundred
men and horses to—that is, to reconvert—well, anyway,
it was one hideously powerful piece of magic. And it was
being wasted, doing me no good at all.

Pook's hooves slid as the slope steepened; he was hav-
ing real trouble keeping his footing, what with the heaving
of the mountain itself. "Just sit down and slide," I sug-
gested. "It's probably safer and faster."

He tried it. We slid down, on cold posteriors, and it

120 Crewel Lye

was indeed faster—but maybe not safer. We soon got up
formidable speed, and there was still a long way to go.

IfYin's spell was strong enough to convert a mountain
to flesh, how strong was Yang's spell, the one that turned
flesh to stone? They were equal and opposite, weren't
they? What would happen when I triggered the Evil
Magician's spell—and had nothing to counter it? Would
it turn me to stone—and Pook, and everything near us?
My talent was good, but I couldn't handle that! If we were
doomed to encounter the black stone, that meant we were
doomed indeed—by the cruel lie Yang had made of this
contest!

Yang had suggested that I give up this quest, letting
him win. That seemed like good advice, in retrospect!
Wouldn't it be better to abort the mission now and at least
salvage my life?

But as I said, the oinkheadedness of barbarians is leg-
endary, and justly so. Even though it now seemed point-
less, I was determined to push on. I had agreed to
undertake this mission and I always did what I said I
would do if I could, even if it made no sense at the time.
And who could tell; maybe my talent would heal me from
being stoned. Of course, that might take a few years...

We slid to the snow line. The flesh had not reached
here yet, and the mountain below remained stable. Pook
got to his feet, swished his tail about to dislodge the snow
sticking to his rear, and moved on down, not eager to
have the rock turn mushy under his hooves again. Horses
don't go for that mushy stuff. Actually, I wasn't sure that
would happen; there had to be some limit to the effect,
or all of Xanth would become flesh.

Indeed, the mountain seemed to stabilize above the
snow line. If the conversion was continuing, it had slowed;

there was just too much rock in the mountain for the magic
to digest, if that was the proper word.

Once we were safely below the region of flesh, we
paused to eat and graze. Our slip-sliding had taken some
time and more energy, and we were tired and hungry.
Horses, I had discovered, had to eat a lot! I had somehow
supposed that a man with a steed could travel long dis-

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121

tances at high speed; now I knew it wasn't so. But, of
course, Pook had become more to me than mere trans-
portation. Much more. Maybe his companionship was
more important than his average velocity.

So we took time to fill our bellies in our separate fash-
ions, foraging for grass and leaves and fruits, and scouted
around for a suitable campsite. We were below the level
of the snowsnakes, but what about the snow-birds? I didn't
want to have my mind zonked out again by their snow
job.

However, a completely different threat materialized.
We had ignored the mountain of flesh because we were
beyond its range, we thought. That turned out to be overly
optimistic.

The ground shuddered. At first I thought it was an
earthquake—a magical tremor that was very unsettling
to experience, resembling as it did the heavy tread of an
ogre, but not too dangerous in the open. But then I re-
alized that it emanated from the mountain of flesh above
us. The stuff was shaking with increasing violence, as if
trying to get free.

Of course it wanted to be free! Here it was, abruptly
waking as a huge mass of living tissue—with no eyes or
ears or nose, no way to discover where it was or what it
was doing there. So it was doing the only thing it could—
bashing its way out. If I were blindfolded and deaf and
tied down, I'd struggle too!

Snow crashed down beyond the snow line, heading for
us. The shaking flesh had started an avalanche! There
wasn't enough snow to do real harm, but I did not feel
easy. Sure enough, pretty soon the rocks on the fringe of
the flesh-zone were shaken loose and they started rolling
down. Those could harm us!

"I think maybe this is not our best place to camp," I
told Pook.

He agreed. I mounted, and we started on down.

But now it was getting dark, and the struggles of the
mountain increased. The violence was such that the welkin
was jarred, and an early-showing star was jostled out of

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123

its socket. It fell nearby, tracing a fiery path across the
sky, and set the dry brush aflame. More trouble!

The mountain heaved again and shook the Firmament.
Other stars fell, starting other fires; they really weren't
very well anchored when they first came out. Soon there
were sizable conflagrations, and we smelled the smoke.
But we couldn't hurry, because the footing was treach-
erous in the gloom, and we had to be alert for more rolling
stones.

The mountain peak belched. A mass of gas burst out,
soiling the sky. Several stars coughed, and a comet sneezed
so hard its tail flew off. Bad business!

We traveled as well as we could, but it was nervous
business, with fires blazing on either side, boulders rolling
down from above, and clouds of the mountain's stomach
gas hovering in the night sky. The scene was very like
my private picture of hell, and I was not eager to remain
there long.

The conversion of stone to flesh had not melted the
snow; apparently it was cold flesh. But the fires raging
up the slope were now heating the upper reaches, and
water was beginning to flow from the fringe of snow.

We came to a cul-de-sac. Ahead was a section so steep
as to be clifflike, while the fires closed off the escape to
the sides. We did not want to retreat back up the moun-
tain, but did not want to stay in place, either. The ground
was still shuddering with the motions of the tortured flesh,
threatening to dislodge us from our perch. Behind, we
heard the increasing sibilance of rushing water. We could
soon be washed on down the cliff, becoming part of the
waterfall!

There is something about personal hazard that sharp-
ens my native cunning. "Diversion!" I exclaimed. Pook
cocked an ear at me questioningly, perhaps fearing I was
losing what little wit I possessed. "I'll show you!"

1 dismounted and scrambled to the side, near the fire.
I used my boot to scuff a channel in the ground, and my
sword to cut through the brush in the way. Quickly I
extended the channel upward at a slant, forming a bank
on its lower side. I took advantage of whatever natural

declivities there were, so that my channel curved but was
reasonably deep. Pook was perplexed, but helped me ex-
cavate through a small ridge by bashing it with a hoof.

Naturally we struck a buried boulder, too big either to
circle or to pry out. Now was the time for my reserve
equipment! There was very little time for excavating
around the boulder, so I poked a hole with the point of
my sword and dropped in a cherry bomb. The explosion
blew out a much bigger hole. Then I tossed in a pineapple
and dived clear.

This explosion blew the top off the boulder. It crunched
into a tree in the fire-zone; lucky for us it hadn't gone the
other way! Now my channel was complete; all I had to
do was touch it up where the explosion had messed it up.

Just in time! The trickle of water was becoming a river,
and now this coursed down my sluice. I stood by to free
any clogs that developed. Soon there was a torrent, and
the water deepened the channel itself and sought to over-
flow it; hastily I shored up my embankment. I wasn't
perfectly successful, but most of the water did stay on
course. This meant that only a little of it swirled around
our feet and poured on over the cliff, and most flowed
down into the rising blaze. We had saved ourselves from
being washed away and had diverted the water to the
more useful employment of fighting the nearest fire.

There was a continuous angry hiss as the water in-
truded on the fire's domain, and a cloud of steam puffed
up. My new channel ended at the fire's edge, so there the
water spread out, coursing over a much broader area.
Soon the fire was gone from there, and a swath of black-
ened but unbuming terrain appeared, leading down the
mountain.

"And this is our route down!" I said, pleased with the
success of my strategy. I mounted Pook, and he stepped
into the channel, walking carefully to prevent the moving
water from interfering with his footing.

Thus we made it off the mountain. It wasn't easy or
comfortable, but the farther from the mountain of flesh
we got, the less severe the effects were. Finally, near
dawn, we felt secure enough to rest. We doubted any wild




r

124                    Crewel Lye

creatures would be bothering us; they were all terrified
by the strange events of this night, and most had fled the

scene.

As I settled down to sleep beside a nice, solid boulder,

I pondered the significance of what had happened. So
Yang had switched the spells; he must have done that
while handling them in my presence. Of course he had
known what they were; he had pretended ignorance so
as to have a pretext to touch each one. He had distracted
me with talk of the futility of my mission so that I would
not catch on to the real nature of his skulduggery. His
attempt to bribe me had not been serious; why bribe me
when he already had the situation in hand? He had indeed
deceived me, obliquely. Not for nothing had he remarked
on my bumpkinishness! He had proved it.

He had, ironically, spoken the truth when he said he
was convinced that I would fail. He had ensured that by
cheating. Yin and the King thought this was a straight-
forward spell-vs.-spell contest set in the field; Yang knew
it was an ignorant barbarian trotting blithely into disaster.
Yin's spells were now just about as dangerous to me as

Yang's!

Maybe the King had caught on, and had been about

to warn me not to let Magician Yang touch those spells.
I had been too quick to dismiss his effort. Talk of blun-
dering fools! I had just done the cause of Barbarian Public
Relations a singular disservice, by being precisely as oaf-
ish as charged.

How could I hope to complete this quest when I had

no idea where the object was or what it was? I had climbed
the mountain, back when I had some notion; was it be-
cause the object was up there? Should I go back to the
fleshy peak? I could not be sure, but since 1 hadn't seen
anything up there except snow, I concluded that wasn't
it. Could the thing be on one of the other peaks of this
range, and I had been about to check them all until I
found it? Again I couldn't be sure. The black compass
had somehow nullified my brain in this respect, so that I
could not even decide where to search. The only confi-

Crewel Lye                     125

dence I had was that whatever I decided to do would be
wrong, because of that hostile magic.

Somewhere among my remaining white spells was the
true finder compass. But which one was it? If I invoked
one and guessed wrong, not only would I be wasting an-
other spell that I would certainly need later but I could
be getting myself into immediate trouble, as I had done
atop the mountain.

I had supposed this adventure was going to be slightly
tame for my taste. Abruptly it had become slightly too
challenging. Elsie had tried to warn me that there could
be days like this; naturally I hadn't listened. A barbarian
who thinks he can interact on an equal basis with Magicians
is a fool, indeed!

Well, Pook had been farther from the black compass
than I had been, so wasn't affected as much. Perhaps he,
being equine, had not been touched at all. I would just
have to trust his horse sense to get me where I was going.
I suspected that Evil Magician Yang had not realized that
I would have a sensible friend along.

With that modestly renewed sense of comfort, I slept.

Chapter 8. Tarasque

In the middle of the day, the heat forced us awake.
Pook had been grazing in his sleep; that's a talent his kind
has that I was coming to envy. I foraged for bread sticks,
picking them off a stale bread tree; they were better than
nothing. Then we went on.

We were in hilly country now, but there were no more
mountains, for which I was duly grateful. I had climbed
the mountain in part to avoid the predestined route and
the evil spells on it; obviously this had been ineffective,




126

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Crewel lye

127

so there was no point in bothering with such efforts hence-
forth. Pook proceeded northwest, which I was sure was
the wrong direction, but I didn't argue. I hoped he had
some inkling where the object was, though I despaired of
either finding it or bringing it back to Castle Roogna. How
could I, with my own spells loaded against me? Magician
Yang had really fixed me, but that ol' barbarian oink-
headedness prevented me from quitting. If there's one
thing worse than blundering, it is admitting the blunder.

As evening dawned—well, you know what I mean—
we spied a region of caves and considered using one of
them for the night. Barbarians, of course, are not far
removed from cavemen. But in the shadows we heard
myriad clicking sounds and saw little pincers lifted in
eager anticipation of our flesh. Nickelpedes! No, these
were smaller, but twice as fierce; they were dimepedes.
They had ten little legs, and silvery pincers that could
readily gouge out serrated disks of flesh. They couldn't
do much to Pook's hooves, but all they had to do was
scuttle to the flesh above and begin work. Certainly we
were not about to lie down there!

So we found a little lake with a littler island and leaped
across to that. The dimepedes could not swim—in fact,
they sank in water like so many bits of metal—so we
knew they would not bother us in the night. And since
they would be foraging in this region under cover of dark-
ness—they could not tolerate the full light of day, because
that showed up the dirt on them—no other creature would
be in this vicinity. We had an ideal nocturnal retreat.

But as darkness closed, the fish came to the surface
of the lake, and they were strange ones. One had little
gauzy wings, so that she could fly just above the surface,
and a little halo of light formed above her head. "What
are you?" I asked, not expecting an answer, for few fish
talk.

"She's an angelfish, man-visitor," a voice at the shore
said. There was a fat-faced fish there, and it seemed that
one could talk. "She will dance for you, if you wish.
Angelfish are very nice creatures."

"Well, sure," I agreed, seeing no harm in it. Some

civilized folk think there is nothing good in the wilderness,
but we uncivilized folk know that there are fewer threats
to man among wild creatures than there are among our
own violent kind.

The angelfish stood on her tail just over the water,
buzzed her wings, and did a pirouette. Then she leaped
and circled and splashed lightly against the lake; the light
from her halo was enough to make her reflection visible
in the still water, so that there seemed to be two of her.
One was upright, above the surface, and the other was
inverted, below. It was a pretty effect.

Then another fish appeared, his motions sending rip-
ples that broke up the reflection of the first, spoiling the
effect. He hoisted himself up; he lacked wings, but some-
how was able to walk the surface. He was reddish and
had little horns, and his tail curved back behind him as
he stood, ending in a barb.

"And there's the devilfish," the fat announcer said.
"He always shows up to spoil things."

Indeed it was so, for the angelfish made a little bubbly
scream and fled, the devilfish chasing her with an evil
leer on his gills. But she could not leave the region of the
water, and the lake was small, so they went round and
round in circles.

Suddenly I jumped. Something had cut my foot, which
was near the water. I looked—and saw a cuttlefish, its
tentacles like knives, brandishing those little blades at my
tender toes. I had taken off my boots to air my stinking
feet—barbarian feet can be pretty bad when confined,
and when the stench gets so thick it squishes, it's time to
let it out—so now they were vulnerable. "Get away from
me, you creep!" I snapped, grabbing a boot and flailing
with it.

The fish dived below the surface. My boot struck the
fringe of water—and stuck. Now, I knew boots could get
pretty gunky, but they had never stuck to water before!
I yanked—and found that something had clamped onto
the boot's toe. It had giant dull pincers—and when I
hauled harder, the whole thing came up, and I saw it was




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Crewel Lye

129

nothing but pincers, broad serrated things. "What's this?"
I demanded.

"A shellfish, of course," the other fish replied.

"How do I get it off my boot?"

"Well, it's afraid of starfish—"

I looked into the dark sky. There was a star in the
shape of a fish, but it was out of reach. Some starfish
shine brightly in the water, while others hover in the night
sky; I suppose there is enough water up there for them.
But my animal cunning was operating. "Let go, shellfish,
or I'll fetch down that starfish," I threatened.

Immediately the shellfish dropped off my boot and sank
back in the water. I had bluffed it.

"You should have eaten it instead," the other fish said.
"And the cuttlefish too."

"They wouldn't have liked that," I said.

"Who cares what they like? They don't count! Nobody
counts but Number One!"

My brow creased. "What kind offish are you?"

"I thought you'd never ask! I am a sel-fish, of course."

"Sell fish? What do you sell?"

"Instant gratification—that's the selfish way. Don't
worry about the welfare of others!"

"Don't listen to him!" the angelfish called, pausing in
her flight. Then she screamed, for in that moment other
distraction the devilfish had caught up with her. He
wrapped his fins about her quivering body and bore her
down despite her struggles. The two disappeared under
the surface, and only her little halo remained floating on
the water.

"He always wanted to catch an angel like her," the sel-
fish said smugly. "She won't be needing that halo any
more—not after he's through compromising her."

I was angry about the fate of the pretty angelfish.
"Something's fishy about your attitude," I said. I fished
the halo out of the water, but it disintegrated in my hand.
Halos were not for such as I.

"You're a fool," the sel-fish said witheringly and swam
away.

"I surely am," I said under my breath. People like me

were always getting victimized by clever, unscrupulous
people like Magician Yang, just as the angelfish was rav-
ished by the devilfish. Yet somehow I didn't care to trade
places with the obvious winners. I couldn't make much
sense of my own attitude; it was simply the way I was.
Just an ignorant barbarian.
I slept, discontented.

Next day we left the island and set off again. We came
to a kind of gateway in the forest, formed by two large
trees linking branches above. I didn't like this; it reminded
me of the trees guarding Castle Roogna, the ones that
didn't like me. But there was so much thorny bush around
that the portal appeared to be the only practical way to
go. Pook didn't like it any better than I did, but also saw
no better way; it seemed that was the direction we were
supposed to be going in, by his reckoning.

So we went. Pook nudged through the gate, and I kept
my hand on my sword. Nothing happened. But Pook
sniffed the air nervously, winding something unpleasant,
and I experienced a feeling of claustrophobia. This was
definitely ugly territory!

Yet the sun shone pleasantly, there were playful little
breezes, the footing was good, and there did not seem to
be any bad animals in this region, so we moved along
well. I did notice that the trees interlinked, forming ver-
itable walls of foliage, but these were intermittent, so that
we had no trouble passing through the spaces. Both of us
remained nervous about the confinement, but all we needed
to do was trot along until we got out of the region. Cer-
tainly it was better than climbing a snow-topped moun-
tain.

Then there was a buzzing. I didn't like the sound of
that, and Pook switched his tail nervously. Horses tend
to dislike buzzing things generally, but some buzzes are
worse than others, and this was bad buzzing. The sound
loomed louder, and then the source manifested—a swarm
of huge flies.

I muttered a repeller-spell. Some people claimed spo-
ken spells didn't work in Xanth, but in my opinion those




folk hadn't given them a fair trial. I used spells to make
fire, put myself to sleep, abolish warts, adjust my eyes
to sudden changes of light, ease pain, and the like; that
sort of magic generally worked for me. Of course, it helped
to have two magic stones to strike together for the first
spark for the fire and to relax properly before using the
sleep-spell; the magic took weeks or months to work on
the warts and several seconds on the eyes; and there was
only so much that incidental magic could do for pain. But
weak magic was better than none at all, I always said,
knocking on wood. Sometimes, when I was very tired and
really needed to sleep, the sleep-spell zonked me out in-
stantly, and that was a blessing. One simply had to under-
stand the natural limitations of magic; then it worked just
fine. Once in a while one encountered a bum spell, one
that simply did not perform as advertised; then it was
simply a matter of reporting it to the Barbarian Better
Business Bureau, so that no one else would be deceived
into using that spell.

Anyway, I used the fly-spook-spell, but that swarm
came right on at us. Then I saw that these were not or-
dinary flies; they were dragonflies, resistive to such little
magic. Normally dragonflies did not deign to bother peo-
ple, but buzzed about their own business, preying on other
bugs and keeping company with real dragons. On occa-
sion, a dragonfly would adopt someone's garden, keeping
it clear of bugs. But these ones were different; they were
wild, not tame, and they were out after us.

Pook broke into a gallop, but the dragonflies were faster
than we were and quickly overhauled us. I flailed my arms
and Pook swished his tail violently, but to no avail. The
flies came at us head-on, jetting fire, and veered away
only at the last instant. Thus their fire continued on at its
target. One of those little scorches scored on my bare
forearm; it hurt!

This seemed ludicrous, but I drew my sword and sliced
the air with it, swiftly. I cut a fly in half and winged
another; the first fell with smoke trailing from its fuselage,.
and the second plunged out of control because of the loss
of its wing, crashed into the ground, and exploded. A

mushroom cloud of smoke roiled up from the site of the
impact.

That made the others pause for a moment. Then they
formed into a wedge and charged us together. I put up
the flat of my blade to deflect their massed firepower,
and their flame reflected back at them, scorching several.
You would think dragonflies would be immune to their
own heat, but as with many creatures, they can't take
what they give out. There were three more spins out of
control and two more explosions. The third just fizzled,
sending up a few sparks before melting down.

Now the flies withdrew into a huddle, consulting. I
didn't like the look of this. If they charged us all at once,
from all sides, Pook and I would get badly burned. But
instead they retreated.

"What do you make of that?" I asked aloud. Pook
twitched an ear, as mystified as I. Some of his hide was
scorched, and he had surely expected worse to come.
These flies had seemed more omery than that and cer-
tainly no cowards; their abrupt departure was as ominous
as their approach had been.

But there was nothing better to go on. "Maybe they
ran low on fuel," I said. "The way that last one fizzed,
maybe he lacked the oomph to blow." But I didn't really
believe that.

Then Pook stepped over an object on the ground. There
was a flash of something awful.

"The next evil spell!" I exclaimed with dismay. "We
triggered it! The dragonflies knew it was lurking here!"

But what spell was it? Nothing seemed to have hap-
pened. So I leaned down to peer more closely at whatever
it was, before it faded out. The dragonflies would not have
veered away from an innocuous spell!

It was in the shape of a black monster.

I needed the monster-banishing-spell, and I had it in
my bag—but did I dare invoke it? It was possible that
not all the white spells had been garbled, but I decided
not to risk it. For one thing, no monster had appeared.
Maybe this particular spell had malfunctioned.

We heard a gleeful buzzing returning, and with it the
thunk-thunk of the footfalls of some massive creature.

"Now I could be wrong, but that sounds like large
trouble to me," I said.

Pook agreed. He took off at a gallop, leaving the pon-
derous noise behind. It's always best to avoid trouble, if
possible, especially when it's bigger than you are. I know
that sounds unbarbarian, but there are a number of myths
about barbarians I've been trying to dispel. When the only
safety is in flight, the sensible man flees.

But we came to a curve in the path, and the vegetation
was too thickly intertwined to permit any ready egress;

we had to follow that curve in a loop back. The pursuing
thing made a shortcut and gained on us. We just didn't
have time to hack through the meshed trees and brush;

we had to keep moving. That was, of course, why that
spell had been placed here; it was a very bad place for
me. Fortunately, we had developed enough of a lead so
that we were still well ahead of the creature. We took off
down a new path and again left the thunk-thunk-thunk
behind.

And again we encountered a curve. This was incon-
venient, annoying, and perhaps dangerous, for it allowed
the thing behind us to catch up once more. This time the
snout of the thing showed around the curve before we
left it behind. It had whiskers and a feline aspect.

As we left it behind this time, I wondered: What had
a feline aspect and six legs? For that was the number it
had; I could tell by the triple thunk. I was long accustomed
to identifying animals by their traces and sounds. Two-
legged creatures have an even beat when they run; four-
legged have double beat, as the two forelegs and two hind
legs strike. This was triple. I had not so long ago en-
countered a six-legged creature, I couldn't quite remem-
ber where, but it had been so low-slung as to whomp
rather than run. This was different.

And another turn! This was awkward as anything! Now
all of the pursuer came into view, and I recognized it at
last—the tarasque. Of course—Yin had warned me of it.
Of all the creatures I might have encountered here, this

was the one I least preferred, now that I grasped its na-
ture. The tarasque was technically a dragon, but not a
normal one, for it possessed certain nonreptilian attri-
butes. Its head was that of an ant-lion, it had six ursine
legs—we don't have what the Mundanes call bears in
Xanth, but we do have their legs—a big spiked carapace,
and an ugly reptilian tail. All in all, an ugly customer.

Once more we outdistanced it. But still we were in the
confines of this maze, and the tarasque seemed tireless.
Some of these big ones are boosted by magic, unfair as
that may seem to their prey. If we ever got out into open
forest, we could outrun it permanently—but we were
stuck in this mess of channels.

And, of course, that was the point. The evil spell had
been placed to summon the monster as the final wedge
of a careful trap. Naturally, the bumpkin had marched
right into it.

It was now apparent that the evil spells were not simply
strewn along my predetermined path in random fashion.
They were set where they would do the most harm. The
odds against me were even worse than I had imagined.

I had no choice. I would have to risk a defensive spell.
Maybe it would turn out wrong, but at least it was a
chance.

But which spell? The white compass had converted a
stone mountain to flesh; would the monster-banishing-
spell relate any better? But I didn't know what would be
better than the correct spell. I just had to hope that not
all the spells would turn out to be mixed up.

So I grabbed for the white monster figurine as we moved
along. "Invoke!" I cried as I held it in my hand.

It flashed. But the triple pounding of the monster's
paws continued unabated behind us. Whatever the spell
had done, it wasn't monster banishment.

My awareness enlarged as the white object faded from
my hand. I knew we were in a maze-warren that might
have only one exit, so that the tarasque could run down
unwary prey at his leisure. That way the monster's slow-
ness did not matter. Just as I had worn down Pook when
I stalked him and herded him into an inescapable situa-

134 Crewel Lye

tion, so the tarasque would wear us down. Flight would
not accomplish anything except tiring us out, and that
was no good. It would be better to stand and fight while
we were strong.

"Pick a good place to ambush the monster," I told
Pook. "We'll fight." He wiggled an ear in acknowledg-
ment.

One thing about tripping the evil spell—it meant we
were still on course for the object, since the spells had
been placed along that course. In fact—another light bulb
sprouted momentarily above my head, brightening the
whole region but not, alas, blinding the tarasque—that
course was predestined. Yang knew where to place his
spells because he knew where I was going to go, according
to the prophecy. There really should be a law against such
prophecies, 1 thought darkly. But this was actually good
news for me. Since my route was predestined, I did not
even need the finder-spell; I would get to the object re-
gardless. In fact, I couldn't avoid it.

That also explained why Yang had tried to bribe me
to quit. If he really believed I would fail, he had no need
of bribery. But if my route was predestined, then I would
find the object—unless I deliberately gave up the mission.
It was not failure that stalked me, but success—assuming
I could handle the hazards along the way. Presumably, if
I got permanently killed, that would be the same as giving
up, and the remainder of my predestined route would be
voided.

Now why was all this obvious to me now, when it had
been obscure before? Was I thinking better? And the an-
swer was yes, I was thinking quite a bit better. I was more
intelligent than I had been. That meant that I had invoked
Magician Yin's spell of intelligence. It had been intended
to counteract Yang's lurking spell of idiocy, but now had
simply increased my normal level. I was a barbarian ge-
nius!

The irony was that genius is wasted on a barbarian. It
doesn't take brains to swing a sword, it takes muscle. No
really smart man would be a barbarian. Another counter-
spell had been wasted.

Crewel Lye                    135

Well, I was stuck with it. Could intelligence help me
escape the monster? That was doubtful. Given a little
time, I could devise a weapon from plucked foliage that
would cause the tarasque to draw into his shell and be
helpless—but I had no time. The smartest thing to do
was to stay out of the monster's labyrinth; I would have
realized that, had I invoked this spell before entering. So
it wasn't much help to me at the moment. Nevertheless,
being smart couldn't hurt.

Quickly I reviewed what I could recall about the tar-
asque. I had thought I had never heard of it, but I had
merely forgotten. There turned out to be more information
stored in the crannies of my brain than I had realized;

bits and pieces of things I had heard elsewhere in my life
and not remembered until this moment of heightened in-
telligence. The tarasque was a deadly monster, and not
a stupid one. It preyed only on live, healthy creatures,
so that it would not pick up any loathsome diseases or
suffer indigestion. It avoided carrion and tainted meat.
The classier predators were like that; griffins were no-
toriously finicky, for example.

There was my strategy of survival! I would try to kill
the tarasque—but if I failed, I would pretend to be tainted.
Then it would not eat me, and my talent in due course
would restore me to full health. It was not the easiest way
to get through, but it was feasible.

What, then, of Pook? He could not heal rapidly, or
grow back lost limbs, or return from death. "Pook, if I
lose, you take off immediately. You must escape while
the tarasque is tending to me."

He neighed in negation. "No, I will heal," I assured
him. "You need time to find your way out of the maze.
I can give you that time."

He snorted, disliking this, obviously believing that I
was exaggerating my healing propensity, but he assented.

Suddenly he veered into a side pocket. This was just
large enough to give us fighting room while protecting our
sides and rear. If we could hold off the monster, this was
the place to do it.

136 Crewel Lye

"But first let's give the tarasque a chance to pass us
by," I said. "We don't want to fight unless we have to."

In a moment the monster shot past our alcove,
screeched to a halt, backed up, and stared in. I realized
that I should have struck at its midsection before it got
its head oriented, now that I saw it clearly; the head had
tusklike teeth and orange-glaring eyes and was framed by
a tawny mane. Overall, the tarasque was as big as Pook—
but the horse was constructed for running, while the mon-
ster was constructed for combat. Its bear-paws attached
to hugely muscled legs, and their claws were stout.

I drew my sword as I dismounted and stood before
Pook, facing the tarasque "I don't suppose we can settle
this amicably?" I inquired of the monster. I really didn't
expect any affirmation, but I wouldn't want it said that I
had fought without reason. There are forms to be fol-
lowed, after all.

For answer, the monster roared. The sound made the
trees confining us shudder, their leaves curling. What
power! An ogre could hardly do much better than that!
I'm a husky barbarian, of course, so I don't properly
understand fear, but that sound provided me with an ink-
ling. The wind from the monster's exhalation blew back
my hair and tore at the interlocking branches of the trees.
The odor of it was not exactly sweet, either.

"I feel obliged to advise you that I am a primitive
warrior type, excellent with my weapons," I said. Too
bad the monster's carapace was so sturdy; it would resist
the blast of a pineapple. Otherwise I would have had an
easy way out. "If you should choose to back off now, I
will understand."

The tarasque took a step forward. Its three left legs
moved together, then its three right legs. It opened its
mouth marvelously wide, so that I could readily perceive
exactly how horrendous its jaws were. Those teeth were
like a forest of spikes, some narrowing to points, some
splitting into multiple cutting ridges, some serrated like
the surface of a saw. There were ledges and valleys and
sculptured contours that I was sure meshed neatly with

Crewel Lye                     137

their opposite numbers when those jaws came together;

hapless indeed the creature on whom those jaws closed!

I tried once more, for courtesy requires three attempts
at peaceful settlement. "There is one special thing you
should know about me—"

The tarasque pounced, mouth gaped wide, another roar
forming in the tonsil region.

Ah, well, I had tried. Now I fought, free of any res-
ervations. I'm actually pretty good in that sort of circum-
stance. I swung my blade about with the legendary skill
for which barbarians are justly famed. It blurred in an arc
that passed through the gaping mouth and severed the
tongue, a tonsil, and the forming roar. That cut the bite
short; the jaws clapped together as my sword exited, and
spurting blood overlapped those finely chiseled, clean
white teeth.

"I did try to warn you, turtle-shell," I said. "I am not
your routine terrified, helpless prey; I am a swordsman.
You will take severe injuries and perhaps die, if you per-
sist in this quarrel."

The tarasque's eyes blazed. That was, of course, the
point to my discussion: to enrage the creature beyond the
edge of reason. It is Standard Barbarian Artifice Number
Three, verbal aggravation of subject. Some weak swords-
men with strong tongues do very well on the adventure
circuit, I understand.

The monster nudged forward, swiping at me with a
massive forepaw. I ducked back, and the swipe missed
and caught the trunk of the tree to my right, gouging out
four channels of bark. The tree shuddered and groaned
woodenly, and sap dripped from the wounds. That from
channel number 4 smelled very good.

But I had concerns of my own. I poked my point at
the monster's left eye. The tarasque ducked back alertly,
avoiding the thrust. My first strike had caught it by sur-
prise, but now it was wary. Having one's tongue cut off
tends to facilitate caution. So I struck down at its black
nose and lopped off two whiskers.

That made the creature angry! The loss of those whis-
kers disfigured its puss, and it seemed the monster was

138 Crewel lye

vain about its appearance. The severed tongue and tonsil
didn't show, but those whiskers did! The tarasque let out
a blood-flecked scream and pounced at me. Of course I
ducked down and jabbed the point of my sword up, seek-
ing to cut the exposed throat. The monster spun aside
just barely in time, lost its balance, and crashed against
the clawed tree.

My advantage! I squeezed out on the other side and
made a powerful two-handed chop at its side. All I hit
was its heavily armored carapace. My blade bounced off
with no injury to the tarasque, but with a numbing shock
to my hands and arms. Ouch! I wouldn't do that again.

Now I was outside my alcove and afoot; I had no
protection to sides or rear. I would be lost in a moment
if I didn't do something.

The tarasque was bringing its head about. I jumped
forward, grabbed the nearest spike, and hauled myself
up on the dragon's carapace. I doubted that the mon-
ster's head could reach the middle of its armored back.
"Ho, halfwhisker!" I cried as I seated myself between
spikes, bracing my boots against them. "What do you say
now, stinksnoot?" Tastefully selected insults are naturally
a key aspect of Artifice Number Three.

What the tarasque said was an unrepeatable roar of
wrathy rage. It whipped its head about to snap at me, but
couldn't reach me. I chopped at its furry ears with my
sword, cutting off one of them. That made the monster
angrier yet.

The tarasque tried to buck me off, but was too solid
to accomplish much, and I was well braced. It tried to
reach up a paw to swipe at me, but the six legs were
designed for nether support of its solid mass, not for
upward mobility, and this one never got close. It tried to
bash my leg against a tree, but its own spikes extended
well beyond my leg, so that all it did was poke a hole in
the tree and get itself temporarily stuck in the wood. It
tried to roll over, squashing me, but the spikes prevented
it from rolling. Meanwhile, I constantly nicked those bits
of flesh I could reach with the point of my sword, harrying
the monster unmercifully.

Crewel lye                    139

Unfortunately, I could not do the tarasque serious harm
from where I perched. Its carapace protected it from in-
jury as effectively as it protected me from molestation.
So we were hung up for the moment, locked in combat
without being able to terminate it. Maybe this would be-
come a kind of siege, with the one who lasted longest
emerging the victor.

Alas, not so! The tarasque's long, serpentine tail
whipped about and stung me on the back. That could
touch me!

I tried to lop off the end of that-tail, but it flicked in
and out so fast I couldn't catch it. In fact, I didn't even
dare turn my head, for fear the tail would twitch out an
eye or two. My light body armor was getting cut up, and
stripes were appearing on my flesh. I had to get out of
range of that tail!

But to do that, I had to get off the carapace—and that
would render me vulnerable again to the rest of the mon-
ster. Was there some other way?

Yes, there was. I squirmed around and crawled back-
ward, passing one spike after another, moving toward the
tail. Naturally the flashing tip tore up my back consid-
erably, but I pressed on until I was able to turn partway,
shield my face with my free forearm, and poke my sword
down at the base of the tail where it emerged from the
carapace. I sawed away at that exposed flesh, trying to
sever it from the body. My leverage wasn't good, but my
blade was sharp, and soon I penetrated the thick hide to
the tender flesh beneath.

The tarasque screamed and leaped, prodded by the
sudden pain. That motion was so abrupt and vigorous that
I somersaulted from my perch and rolled on the ground.
Now I was in trouble!

The tarasque blinked, taking a moment to realize that
I had been dislodged. Then it got its reflexes back in order
and pounced. I had hung onto my sword; -now I brought
it up and stabbed it at the monster's snout. The point sank
into the tender cheek. The head jerked back, coming off
the blade, and blood gouted out.

I scrambled to my feet and backed toward the alcove.

140 Crewel Lye

The enraged monster sprang at me again, this time swiping
with a forepaw. I parried the paw, and the blade sliced
into it, cutting off a claw and its supporting pad, but the
shock of the swipe dashed the sword from my hand. I
was disarmed!

Well, not quite, I still had my knife. I had left my bow
and arrows and the bag of spells with Pook; they would
not be useful in combat like this. But the knife seemed
pitifully inadequate.

The tarasque figured it had me and pushed forward,
mouth opening to take a juicy bite of barbarian. It's an
established fact that barbarians taste better than civilized
folk do, because they are healthier, with more lean red
meat.

Well, monsters make mistakes, just as men do. I stabbed
the knife blade into its black nose and twisted.

That smarted! The creature let out a feline screech that
threatened to turn my fingernails green and jerked back
with unbecoming haste. I hung onto the knife, wrenching
it out just ahead of a gout of blood. For the moment, the
tarasque was blinded by pain.

Naturally I followed up my advantage; I am not a war-
rior for nothing! I lunged again for the monster's throat,
seeking the vulnerable vein. But the head pulled back
quickly. This thing wasn't a predatory monster for noth-
ing, either. I was a good deal more of a contest than the
dragon had figured, but the odds remained in its favor,
especially as it learned from its little misjudgments. I
missed the throat and stumbled into the chest area.

Actually, this wasn't a bad place to be. The tarasque
was accustomed to chasing and catching fleeing prey, not
to scratching for it underfoot. Chickens scratch, not drag-
ons! It tried to swipe at me with a forepaw, but lacked
proper leverage that way, and I had no trouble avoiding
the clumsy motion. Then, realizing that its right midpaw
was pretty well pinned to the ground while the right fore-
paw was swiping, I squatted and plunged my blade through
that portion that was against the ground, right above the
big claws.

Hoo, what a fuss that monster made! It yanked up the

Crewel Lye                     141

paw—but with two paws in the air at once, it lost its
balance and sank down on that side. I had to scramble to
avoid getting crushed under the descending carapace. This
creature was armored all around its midsection, so that I
could not get in a good belly-stab. Too bad; in this moment
the region was wide open.

Aha! The legs weren't armored, just the body. Where
the legs emerged from the carapace, they looked espe-
cially tender. There was room for motion around each leg
so that it wouldn't bang into the carapace. The monster
would not be able to chase down swift prey without free
play for the legs. It all made sense—but it offered me my
opportunity.

I dug my blade into that cavity between carapace and
leg. I was rewarded by another roar of enraged anguish.
I was really scoring on the monster now! Both Magician
Yin and the tarasque itself had underestimated the bar-
barian powers of close combat, and perhaps I had done
so, too. Maybe I could take this monster!

But I had overplayed my hand. The tarasque flopped
all the way to the ground, and though I had to scramble
out from beneath and did so with alacrity, my knife hand
got pinned between the leg and the carapace, and I was
caught. That's the one time when the leg does come up
against the shell—when the creature lies down. My knife
hand wasn't hurt, but I couldn't quite scramble free, and
the mass of the monster whomped down on my left leg,
crushing it. It was my turn to howl.

The tarasque got up and turned about to come at me
headfirst. I tried to fend it off with one bare hand, but
one fell swoop of its forepaws nearly ripped my arm from
its socket. Then the monster pinned me to the ground
with one paw and got ready to bite off my face.

"Pook! Get out of here!" I screamed, just before the
slavering, blood-soaked mouth closed on my head. There
was an instant of extreme discomfort as those tusks dug
in—it really isn't much fun, getting your face bitten off—
then darkness.

Pook galloped out of the alcove, his chains rattling.
The monster glanced up. It wasn't finished with me—in

142                     Crewel Lye

fact, it had hardly started on me—but the horse's motion
confused it. Maybe the sight of fleeing prey activated its
chase circuit. But of course one morsel on the paw is
worth two on the hoof, so the tarasque returned to the
business at hand, so to speak. It chomped the rest of the
way through my face.

Pook whirled, charged back, and delivered a two-hoofed
kick to the monster's hind shell. The gross body was
shoved forward, and the snoot plowed into the dirt beside
my head.

That did it. The tarasque spat out my face, shook the
dirt out of its eyes, and started off after the ghost horse.
This was, of course, exactly what I didn't want, since
Pook hadn't had .enough time to get clear. But I was in
no position to protest, being unconscious. In fact, only
now do I see in the tapestry what happened, and how it
was that Pook once again rescued me. I owe a lot to that
horse!

The dragon limped, but was still able to get up re-
spectable velocity. I had hurt it in tongue, cheek, nose,
foot, and shoulder socket, but not enough to dim its fight-
ing spirit. I had not, it seemed, slowed it enough to give
Pook a decent chance.

However, Pook was a smart animal. He remembered
the route out of the maze and followed it. He did lose
time going around the curves; maybe he was guided by
smell and sight as well as memory and did not dare to
leave the exact trail we had made, lest he get lost and
confused and be trapped by the tarasque. So it was close,
but he was able to remain just ahead. Perhaps the fact
that he was no longer carrying my weight, added to the
injuries the monster had suffered, helped; what might have
been a small but critical deficit in relative velocity became
a small advantage. In due course, Pook found his way to
the entrance.

But it was closed. Vines had strung themselves across
it and interlaced and sprouted wicked thorns. Pook skid-
ded to a halt, four hooves churning up turf. What was he
to do now? He had no sword to cut through this mass.

The dragon puffed up behind him. The tarasque was

Crewel Lye                     143

an oddball among dragons, possessing no fire, smoke, or
steam; but when it ran, it puffed. Pook took one look to
the side, realized that it was folly to remain in the maze
to be chased down, and leaped into the vine-shrouded
gate.

The thoms bit cruelly into his skin, but his chains pro-
tected him some, and he was able to scramble through
just as the monster came up. The tarasque snapped at
Pook's hind legs, and that was a tactical error, because
those hooves shot back with a force of one horsepower
and pasted it on the snoot. Then the ghost horse was
through, outside the maze.

But the dragon didn't desist. It shook its sore snoot
and roared at the vines—and they shriveled and fell away.
The tarasque leaped at Pook, who whirled and galloped
off.

Now the nature of the chase changed, for the terrain
favored the horse. Pook began to draw ahead, but paused,
as it were, in thought, and then deliberately slowed, al-
lowing the monster to close the gap. Pook ran just ahead,
always seeming about to be caught, luring the predator
ever farther away from its maze. Pook was, of course,
very good at this sort of thing, for this was how ghost
horses earned their living—luring fools into bad regions,
or scaring them away from good ones. I ought to know!

That gave me time to heal. Fortunately, I wasn't dead,
just unconscious and face-chewed; in an hour or so, I
could grow back my eyeballs and things and be as good
as new. Instead of my using myself as bait to distract the
monster so Pook could escape, Pook was distracting the
monster so I could recover. I think that was really nice
of him.

Pook led the tarasque to the region of caves we had
passed—the ones with the dimepedes. What was he con-
templating? He could not hide there, for the dimes would
nickel him to death.

But it turned out he was more canny than that. Pook
was a master of traps, as I had discovered when I first
chased him down. He went and stood in a patch of sunlight

144 Crewel Lye

before a deep-dark cave. The dimes avoided sun, so they
did not show their silvery little snoots.

The tarasque came up. It was a solid creature, with its
heavy carapace, and maybe its injuries were telling; it had
slowed and was huffing loudly. But now it thought it had
trapped the horse, and it charged.

Pook stepped aside, letting the monster burst into the
cave. It disappeared into the darkness. There was a pause,
then a roar that shook the hillside. The tarasque had dis-
covered the dimepedes, or vice versa! Then the monster
started to back out—but Pook braced himself and kicked
with his hind hooves again at the rear of the carapace,
using his horsepower to shove the monster back in.

It was a beautiful ploy—but alas, not enough. The
tarasque weighed more than Pook did, its huge shell made
it invulnerable to kicks, and it had strong reason to get
out. It hunkered down and shoved, and Pook could not
confine it. Soon it got its head clear, pawed away the
clinging dimepedes, and rotated to face the horse.

Pook was no coward. He stepped close to the tar-
asque's face and spun about. His chains flung out and
whipped across the dragon's head, knocking out a tooth
or two, or maybe an eyeball. The monster was so sur-
prised it pulled its head and forelegs back inside its shell—
whereupon Pook kicked sand and dirt in after the head.

It seems monsters don't like having sand kicked in their
snoots. The tarasque bellowed so hard that the sand was
blown out of its neck hole and three leg holes. The car-
apace almost lifted off the ground, propelled by the blast.
As roars go, that was a good one!

Now the baleful head came out of the shell, teeth
gleaming furiously. And Pook scored on the nose with
another kick. His hind hoof jammed the sore black nose
right back into the dragon's sore head, so that the tar-
asque's face became concave instead of convex, and
shoved the head back into the shell.

Pook was fighting the monster better than I had!

Then the horse sniffed, smelling something. Quickly
he trotted to the side, where a ragweed bush grew. He
snatched a rag between his teeth, ripped it off, held his

Crewel Lye                   145

breath, and trotted back to the tarasque, whose head was
just emerging again from the carapace. Pook flung the rag
onto the monster's nose and backed out of the way.

Now, ragweed was not a normal choice for cloth, be-
cause of a special and objectionable quality of the rags.
No one wove ragweed into rugs or clothing, except per-
haps as a practical joke, and not just because the rags
were ugly. But in this case—

The tarasque sneezed. That was what ragweed did. It
caused uncontrollable sneezing. Some creatures could
sneeze for days after a single whiff; others could struggle
to keep their heads attached. Once the monster got a
good, deep whiff of the potent rag—

It was some sneeze. The blast from it blew the leaves
off bushes and stirred up little dust devils, who uttered
unkind syllables and fled. The dragon's whole body slid
back a distance because of the recoil. The next sneeze
slid it back some more, and the third put its tail well inside
the cave. Half a dozen more sneezes had the tarasque all
the way back in the cave.

Pook trotted over to the ragweed and harvested an-
other rag. The sneeze-dust practically oozed from it, itch-
ing to do its nefarious job. Pook tossed it into the cave,
then scrambled up the hill, found some debris, and kicked
it down. He managed to start a minor avalanche that piled
up junk before the cave, partially blocking it. That wouldn't
stop the monster from powering out, of course, but it did
tend to enclose the air and deflect the wind from the
sneezes, so that the magic sneeze-dust from the rag re-
mained mostly inside the cave. That meant the tarasque
had to keep inhaling it, which in turn meant continued
sneezing.

Pook cocked an ear, listening, as the hillside shook
with the reverberations. I know what he heard: a number
of little sneezes along with the big ones. The dimepedes
were affected, too! They would be very angry, once they
managed to stop—and there, deep within their cave, was
the apparent instigator of it all, the tarasque. The dime-
pedes could not pinch through the carapace, but they were
small enough to scuttle up inside the leg holes, head hole,

146

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Crewel Lye

147

and tail hole, and mad enough to do considerable damage
to whatever flesh they found in there. The tarasque was
too deep inside the cave to escape readily this time. There
was about to be a reckoning.

Satisfied, Pook trotted back toward the maze. He had,
to most intents and purposes, defeated the monster. Now
he was returning to rescue me.

But I had problems of my own. I had been healing
nicely—but then the dragonflies arrived to harass me. I
was just regaining consciousness when they swarmed in
and blasted me with dozens of little fiery jets. Singly,
each blast was painful; together, they were devastating.
My newly healing skin was blistered, my clothing burned
off, my hair set on fire. My sight was lost again, and my
sense of smell, and then two flies zoomed down to jet
into my ears and deprive me of my hearing, too. They
actually tore me up much worse than the tarasque had
done, now that they had me helpless. Nothing is quite as
cruel as a weakling with sudden power!

When Pook returned to pick me up, he found me lying
under a cloud of dragonflies. He charged in, swishing his
tail so violently that dozens of flies were knocked out of
the air and sent spinning to the ground, where they det-
onated. The explosions were somewhat feeble, because
the flies' fuel was almost exhausted. Now Pook was strong,
the dragonflies weak; they had used up most of their re-
serves on me, cooking my flesh. They spooked and fled.
There was no point in their remaining, anyway; they had
already had their vengeance by destroying my body.

It seems Pook did not yet properly understand the full
nature of my talent. Maybe he thought my recovery had
been a fluke before, in the caves of the callicantzari. He
did not realize how badly the tarasque had hurt me or
how far I had recovered from that before the flies re-
turned. Thus he did not understand that I would recover
on my own, given a few hours. So he tried to help me.

He rolled me over with his nose, shoved me into the
bushes fringing the maze passage, and wedged me up. I
rolled off and flopped back on the ground. He tried again,
and again I flopped limply. One seldom realizes how use-


ful human hands are until one observes a horse trying to
pick up a man with hooves. It is just about impossible.

My burned-off skin was now plastered with dirt, so
that I looked like a zombie fried in bread crumbs. Anyone
else would have sought a decent burial for the appalling
remains. But Pook wouldn't give up. He found a better
place, where a low branch touched the ground, and rolled
me to that, then nosed me up on it, got his head under,
and finally managed to hump me off the branch and onto
his back.

My head and hands dangled on one side of his body
and my feet on the other, but he was able to carry me.
He took me out of the maze, then on around it, proceeding
generally northwest. Probably he knew there was no help
where we had been, so he was hoping there would be
some where we hadn't been.

As the day waned, I healed partway and began to stir.
Pook didn't realize the significance of that; he might not
even have distinguished my motion from that of inert
flopping.

At last he spied a cabin in a clearing in the jungle. He
gave a nicker of relief and headed for it. There, perhaps,
there would be human help for me.

Chapter 9. Threnody

I woke in a bed of fragrant ferns. I saw the in-
terior of the cabin, neatly ordered, with shelves bearing
spices and herbs. In a corner was a strange, large, hollow
gourd with strings stretched lengthwise across it. And
sitting in a wicker chair was a quite pretty young woman
in a brown dress.

She saw me react and got up to approach me. "So you




148 Crewel Lye

are recovering," she said in a low voice. "I wasn't certain
you would."

"Oh, I always did before," I said. My body ached, but
I knew that would soon pass as the healing was com-
pleted.

"Your horse brought you in," she said. "You seem to
have been pretty badly burned."

That was when I realized that the dragonflies had re-
turned. The awareness had faded out, but now I remem-
bered. "Yes."

"I don't get many visitors," the woman said. "So I may
be rusty on the amenities. Let me just say that my name
is Threnody. I live alone and like it, and we'll get along
just fine if you keep your hands to yourself and depart as
soon as you are able. Your horse is grazing outside."

So this was a woman who wanted to be left alone.
Some were like that; I never did quite understand why.
Well, I had never been one to force my attentions on
anyone. Barbarians generally encountered enough willing
women so that they had little taste for unwilling ones,
and I don't care what the civilized folk claim to the con-
trary.

"I am Jordan the Adventurer, I heal very fast, and I
have a mission to accomplish, so I'll be on my way soon
enough," I said. "I thank you for taking care of me while
I was unconscious; I must have been pretty dirty."

"You certainly were! I had to wash you all over. Sand
was virtually embedded in your hide. I thought you were
dead, but you weren't as far gone as it seemed. I put some
ointments on your burns and let you rest. You must have
blundered into a dragonfly nest." She eyed me apprais-
ingly. "I must say, you do have a hardy constitution;

you're quite a robust figure of a man."

"Yeah, I'm a genuine barbarian, mostly brawn, not too
much brain," I said, smiling. Actually, I was pretty smart
at the moment, because of the eye-queue spell I had ac-
cidentally invoked. "Fortunately, Pook is on hand to take
care of me."

"Pook," she repeated. "Your horse? Does that
mean—?"

Crewel Lye                     149

"Yes, he is a pooka, a ghost horse. That's why he wears
those chains."

"You tamed a ghost horse?" she asked, surprised.

"No. We're just friends."

She laughed. She was beautiful when she did that.
"Well, he's loyal. He could have dumped you off any-
where and left you to die." She glanced toward the kitchen
comer. "Are you well enough yet to eat?"

"Oh, yes, I'm hungry!"

"You are recovering swiftly! You look better already."

"Yes, I'm always hungry after a fatal injury," I agreed.

Again she laughed, taking this as humor. She poured
some gruel from the pot on her hearth into a wooden bowl
and brought it to me. The stuff was as dark and liquid
as her hair, but it tasted good and seemed to be nutritious;

I felt rapidly stronger.

"I have a trouser-tree growing in my yard," she said.
"Never thought I'd need it, as I prefer dresses." She held
up a pair of brown jeans. "These should fit you."

"Thank you," I said. I got out of the fern bed and into
the jeans, and they did fit tolerably well.

"That's amazing," she remarked, watching. Evidently
she wasn't one of those prudish civilized women, though
in other respects she did seem civilized. "Your skin is
almost whole again! You were so badly burned—"

I shrugged. "Guess it looked worse than it was." I could
have explained about my talent, but it didn't seem nec-
essary, since I was about to leave. Actually, I wasn't
paying full attention to her, as my ensmartened brain was
distracted by philosophical insights and intellectual ex-
ercises it hadn't been interested in before. Today I can
only vaguely appreciate the mental convolutions I in-
dulged in then, for now I am of only ordinary smartness.
That is why I am not telling this story in the intelligent
way I could have told it then.

Yet I think, in retrospect, that I must have made the
error of overlooking the obvious in the course of my pur-
suit of the esoteric, for I really did not act very smart in
Threnody's house. Some extremely smart people are sort
of dull about practical details.

Crewel lye

150

"I had no idea you'd be on your feet so soon," she

said. "What is your mission?"

"Oh, nothing that would interest you," I replied off-
handedly. "I have to go fetch an object and bring it back

to Castle Roogna."

"Castle Roogna?" she repeated, interested in a peculiar
kind of way. I should have noticed that, but didn't, then.

"Is that still functioning?"

"Oh, sure. But old King Gromden is dying, and there's
a problem about the succession. So I—"

"The King is dying?" she asked alertly.

"Yes. And these two Magicians, Yin and Yang, are
vying for the throne, so—"

"Yin and Yang—but they—"

"Can't agree on anything," I finished. "Except on this
magic contest, to see whose spells are stronger. So I—"

"I'm beginning to understand! You are working for

them!"

"Yes, in a way. I've got to complete my mission so

Yin will win, but Yang's spells are interfering. It's been
pretty rough, but I think I'm getting close." I shrugged.
"I won't bore you with the details. I'll be on my way now.
Thanks for the gruel, girl."

"Wait," she said. "This object you have to fetch—do

you know what it is?"

"No. I have Yin's finder-spell, but haven't used it yet.
But I think the object is somewhere around here, because

I'm predestined to—"

"Sit down, Jordan," she said. "Let me tell you a story
that you may not have heard. I'll serve you some wine."

"Oh, sure. Thanks," I was always willing to be socia-
ble.

Threnody mixed some fluids in a cup, which surprised

me, for I had always thought wine came directly from
wineskins grown by wine-lilies. She brought the cup to
me, and I drank it while she talked. It was pungent stuff,
with a bitter aftertaste but pretty good. Barbarians don't
have much taste, anyway.

"King Gromden had a child, a daughter," Threnody

said.

Crewel Lye

151

"Oh, sure. He told me."

"What else did he tell you about her?"

"Nothing much. Just that his wife and child had gone
away and he missed them something awful." I burped;

that wine was bubbling up inside me.

"There was a bit more to the story than that," Thren-
ody said.

"Well, he's pretty lonely now." Then my intelligence had
a flash. "Yang mentioned scandal; maybe that was—"

She was silent a moment, then resumed her story as
if she had not been interrupted. "King Gromden's daugh-
ter was the apple of his eye, and indeed she was said to
be very pretty. His wife grew jealous of the attention the
child got and put a curse on her: if she remained at Castle
Roogna, the castle would fall. This saddened the King
very much, but he had to preserve the capital of Xanth
at all costs, so he sent the girl away. Because he was
angry with the Queen for putting on that curse, he sent
her away, too. But before the Queen departed, she put a
curse on him also. That was her talent, of course—curses.
She came from cursefolk stock, deep in southern Xanth;

some call those folk fiends. She caused him to forget the
nature of the first curse.

"So ever after, the King sought his banished daughter,
not realizing that he himself had banished her, and for
good reason. He finally located her, but she remembered
the curse and refused to return with him to Castle Roogna.
He could not understand why, for when she told him of
the curse, he immediately forgot. A good curse can't be
circumvented just by a person's being told its nature; it
operates until revoked, or until it just wears out, and the
curses of the curse-fiends don't wear out.

"Since he could not grasp the truth and insisted on an
answer, she had to tell him a lie instead, cruel as it was:

that she preferred to live in the open wilderness instead
of in a gloomy old castle. He kept trying to find ways to
change her mind, but was never successful."

"That's very interesting," I said. "He never said any-
thing to me about the curses."

"Naturally not. He remembers his daughter's absence,




152                    Crewel Lye

though," Threnody said. "And he swore he would find a
way to bring her back and make her happy at Castle
Roogna. In fact, he hoped she would marry his successor,
the next King of Xanth, so his line would continue in
power. The throne of Xanth is not hereditary, as it goes
from Magician to Magician, but sometimes there is a li-
neage through the female side. His daughter wasn't a
Sorceress, of course, but that doesn't matter for wives."

"Well, I guess that didn't work out." I set down my
empty mug. "His successor will be Yin or Yang, and I
don't think either is much interested in marriage right

now."

"They are interested. The people would be more ready
to accept a Magician who married the prior King's daugh-
ter, and her magic power would help him reign, so she is
a moderately valuable property as well as being physically
attractive. Men tend to put too much stress on the latter

aspect."

"Um, yes," I agreed, contemplating Threnody's own

figure.

"In any event, they would not have a choice. The King

arranged it so that neither could become King unless he

married her."

My head was whirling pleasantly. That was strong wine!

"Maybe he'll spring that detail on the winner, once I bring
back the object," I said. "But it will be too bad, because
if her return to the castle means it will fall—"

"Yes, it is a cruel situation," she agreed. "That girl will
never return to Castle Roogna, because she loves her
father and loves Xanth, nothing else. She will do anything
to prevent her return, no matter who the next king is,
though it breaks her father's heart. She has no choice."

"Well, it's not my business," I said, standing. "I just

have to fetch the—"

I reeled, staggered, lost my balance, and fell against

the bed. Something was wrong!

Threnody came to me. "I'm sorry I had to poison you,
barbarian," she said. "But if you should succeed in your
mission, and Yin becomes King, he will do what King
Gromden wants, and marry Gromden's daughter and keep

Crewel lye                     153

her at Castle Roogna. I must prevent that, for when Castle
Roogna falls, so does the human domination of Xanth."

"But—" I protested groggily.

"You see, barbarian innocent, / am King Gromden's
daughter," she said. "I felt it only fair to let you under-
stand why I had to kill you. Better that the life of one
foolish adventurer be forfeit than that Castle Roogna should
fall. It is nothing personal; you seem like a nice person,
for a barbarian."

Then I passed out, and I suppose I died, for the poison
had spread all through my system and it was potent stuff.
Threnody dragged my body across the floor—she turned
out to be pretty strong for a woman—and to a trapdoor
in the back of the cabin and shoved me in.

I slid down a dark chute, then out into the light and
into empty air. The chute opened into the forgotten Gap
Chasm! I dropped a horrible distance and thunked head-
first into the rock at the bottom. If the poison hadn't quite
killed me, the fall certainly had!

Pook heard the distant thunk. His ears twitched. The
edge of the chasm was curved here, and the chasm itself
was narrow. Pook found a ledge that overlooked the depth
and he peered down. His sharp eyes or nose spied my
still remains below, and he gave a neigh of dismay. Maybe
he felt responsible, for he was the one who had brought
me to Threnody's cabin.

But he was a pretty smart animal, and maybe some of
that intelligence spell had rubbed off on him, for he set
about getting down to me without hurting himself. He
trotted west along the brink of the Gap to where it inter-
sected the sea, then jumped into the deep channel of water.
He had a long way to fall and made an awful splash, but
in a moment he bobbed to the surface, despite the weight
of his chains, and swam into the chasm until the water
thinned and he could walk on land. Evidently the Gap
Dragon had business elsewhere, for there was no sign of
him. After all, the Gap extends all the way across Xanth,
as we now know, and no one creature can be everywhere
at once. Still, it was a considerable act of courage on
Pook's part, unless perhaps he had forgotten about the







154                    Crewel Lye

dragon. On the other hand, he had turned out to be pretty
good at Fighting dragons, so maybe he wasn't afraid. Or
maybe he remembered, and was afraid, but was deter-
mined to go to me, anyway. It wasn't long before he

trotted up to my remains.

I was not a pretty sight. My legs were broken, and my
head had cracked open and spilled some of its contents
out. Nothing important, just some gray matter that I sup-
pose was stuffing or insulation. But it was messy, and
there was a good deal of blood spread about. I was as
dead as I had ever been. My sword was lying nearby,
bent and chipped, too. That makes me sad to contemplate,
for that sword had served me well and could not heal

itself.

Pook used his hoof to scrape the pieces and gunk into

a pile; he pushed the pile onto a big leaf and made as good
a bundle as he could manage. There was dirt and garbage
mixed in, of course, but that couldn't be helped.

Pook shoved the bag around, trying to figure out how
to carry it, but could not. So he cast about for a decent
burial spot, believing me to be finished. There was none.
He decided to take me to the shore—but that was some

distance away. What was he to do?

He managed to get the top of the bundle knotted to-
gether somewhat, then hooked one of his chains through
it and the sword's guard and dragged them. The bundle
bumped across the terrain, getting its contents thoroughly
mixed. When Pook reached the small sandy beach where
the chasm joined the ocean, he left the bag at the edge
and set to work excavating a hole with his hooves. Ob-
viously he intended to bury the remains. He was, after
all, a ghost horse; he knew about death and burial.

But when the hole got deep, water seeped in. Dis-
gusted, he moved farther from the sea and started a new
hole. He didn't want my remains to get wet; maybe he
thought I'd be uncomfortable if I rotted in the water. But
the new hole, too, filled with water. He moved yet farther
away—but here it was rocky, impossible to dig with

hooves.

Pook pondered. Then he got smart again. What about

Crewel Lye                    155

sea burial? He could weight the bag down with a big rock
and sink it in the sea. Evidently he thought my remains
wouldn't be as uncomfortable in deep water. But there
were several problems. For one thing, he had no way to
tie a rock to the bundle. Even if he had good vines, he
couldn't tie knots in them. And he knew the big wrapping-
leaf would soon disintegrate in the seawater, releasing its
contents. As he peered out across the water, he saw a
lurking sea monster, licking its chops. He knew I didn't
like getting eaten by monsters. Good thing that monster
hadn't been there when Pook had jumped into the sea!

Finally he shrugged and resumed dragging the bundle.
He intended to get it to a suitable burial place, no matter
how much effort it took.

He hauled and he hauled, finding paths up the steep
slope to the higher ground. He was panting and sweating,
but would not desist till nightfall made it too dark to con-
tinue without risking a misstep and a tumble back to the
beach. Pook was used to night, but this was treacherous
terrain, and the bundle was awkward to manage. So he
parked it in a niche, then braced himself below it and slept
on his feet. He was tired and hungry, but he refused to
quit until he had done the burial properly. Pook was one
faithful friend in death, as he was in life.

But in the night, the creatures of the noctum emerged
to forage. Unseen things slithered along the slope, and
there were sounds of scuttling and scratching. Insects set
up a persistent chirruping. Pook stirred himself to stomp
anything that approached the bundle. A hatch opened a
short distance below, and a goblin's head poked out. Pook
nudged a stone to roll down and scare the goblin back
into his hole. As he knew, goblins could be very bad in
quantity, but this place was evidently out of the main
goblin country. A solitary goblin could be dealt with more
readily than a mob.

Then a smell developed. Pook sniffed and snorted,
disliking it. For a moment he might have been afraid the
stuff in the bag was decomposing. Then he heard crass
flapping and realized it was a harpy. The ugly-faced avian
crone loomed near, sensing her type of prey: namely,




156

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Crewel Lye

157

something helpless. But Pook squealed warning and reared
up, milling his forehooves and clanking his chains, and
she reconsidered. "I didn't know that carrion was yours,
pooka!" she screeched. "Most nags don't eat meat. Next
time, let a girl know, you blippety blip!" I doubt I am
repeating the exact words she used, as they weren^t nice
words; they flattened Pook's ears against his head and
caused the scuttlings in the vicinity to curl up and die.

In this manner the ghost horse guarded the bag during
the night, and never was there a more loyal and forlorn
service rendered. Pook thought he was protecting the re-
mains for decent burial; actually, he was giving me time
to heal. My talent had both poison and the fatal fall to
nullify, and that was a considerable task. I doubt that I
had ever before been killed quite so dead. But all my
pieces were there, plus some dirt for good measure; I
had been granted a day and a night without disturbance
and I was indeed on the mend. As the light of morning
peeped hesitantly over the brink and crept into the chasm,

I stirred.

Pook had been horsenapping. The motion in the bag
brought his ears straight up in shock. Had a predator
sneaked inside to guzzle out the goodies? He investigated
immediately, pulling the bag open.

I looked out at him. "Hi, Pook," I said. "Was it bad

this time?"

He almost fell off the slope.

I stretched and climbed out of the leaf. I was weak but
whole. It's rough, recovering from two deaths simulta-
neously! I would need to eat and rest to replenish the
formidable energies expended in the reconstruction.

"Say, didn't I hear a harpy in the night?" I inquired.
"You shouldn't have driven her off; you should have used
her for stork fodder."

Then I paused, appalled, while Pook looked at me as
if I had sprouted demon's horns. What was I saying?
Nobody got that close to a harpy! How could I have
spawned such a dirty thought?

Actually, it's clear now, though it was muddy then.
Some of that dirt had gotten scooped up with my remains

and tied in the bag—that dirt had gotten caught in my
cracked head as it healed, and now I had a dirty mind.
Too bad—but, of course, it had been a very difficult feat
of healing.

After a moment, Pook recovered from his amazement
and disgust, decided it was really me back alive, and came
to nuzzle my hand. "Oh, didn't you understand about
me?" I asked him, realizing that he hadn't actually seen
me heal before, not all the way from death. He had always
been away, avoiding dragons or searching for an exit from
callicantzari caves or battling a tarasque. "My magic tal-
ent is to heal rapidly from wounds or whatever. If I lose
part of my body, I regrow it; if I am killed, I recover.
You must have collected everything together for me, so
I could recover most rapidly. Thank you, Pook; that was
very nice of you."

He just stood there, embarrassed. I petted him on the
neck. Horses have excellent necks for petting; chickens
don't. "I see you brought the bag of spells along also.
And my sword. That's good; those spells may be jumbled,
but I'll probably need them. I still have my mission to
complete." I looked around. "But how did we get here
on the slope? Last I remember. Threnody had given me
poison—but it shouldn't have taken me a day and a night
to recover from that." I glanced at my body. "And that
wouldn't account for the destruction of my clothing and
all the new flesh I have grown. I've just been through a
major healing."

Pook gestured with his head, indicating the chasm.
"You mean she dumped me down there?" I asked. "I must
have splattered like a broken egg!" He nodded agreement.
Now I understood just how much he had done for me,
and what it had meant when he gave me his friendship.
I knew I owed him a big one.

We climbed on up the slope, slowly, for I was weak
and he was tired. As I moved, I remembered what Thren-
ody had said just before I died. She was King Gromden's
daughter, cursed to stay away from Castle Roogna lest it
fail, and afraid that Magician Yin would marry her and
make her return if he became King. I could see her con-




158                    Crewel Lye

cem—but it seemed somewhat extreme for her to murder
me so abruptly just for that. I had nothing to do with it,
really. Well, not quite true; if I succeeded in my mission,
then Yin would become King, and the heat would be on
Threnody. But why couldn't she simply refuse to marry
him, or refuse to return to Castle Roogna? She had said
no to her father the King; she could say no to Magician
Yin. She didn't have to kill me to prevent Yin from win-
ning; she could have asked me not to mention her where-
abouts, or she could have moved to some other, hidden
place before I returned to the castle. Thus her action
didn't seem to make sense, and that bothered me, for she
was a most attractive woman. A woman I would have
been happy to—

Then I wondered just how much sense my own thoughts
were making. But I had an excuse—the dirt mixed up
with the other gunk in my head. For all I knew, some
rich, brown dirt was a good substitute for the useless gray
stuff that had spilled; still, my head wasn't quite the way
it had been. Of course, as I said, I didn't realize this at
the time, for I hadn't seen myself splat in the Gap Chasm.
Nevertheless, my mind did feel somewhat like an egg
scrambled in sand. For one thing, I seemed to have lost
most of the advantage of the intelligence spell, since no
more complex philosophic thoughts churned about inside
my skull. Maybe the eye-queue spell had compensated
for the mixing my skull-innards had received, resulting in
approximately normal intellect. Had I been really smart,
I could have figured out exactly what made sense about
Threnody and maybe saved myself an extraordinary
amount of grief. But the eyeballs of the eye-queue must
have been pointed every which way, so they couldn't
quite focus on the obvious. I can't say, even now, how
my thoughts ran then; I guess I hadn't properly appre-
ciated the extent of my injuries, since I had been dead at
the time. I really didn't want to believe that a woman as
lovely as Threnody could have done as much damage to
me as she had. I wasn't nearly as sensible as a barbarian

should have been.

One thing was muddily clear, though. I should stay

Crewel Lye                    159

away from Threnody, because she was either crazy or
dangerous, possibly both. If Yin was going to marry her,
that was his problem, not mine. He was a Magician; maybe
he could handle her. I couldn't see why he would even
want to marry a woman like that. Um, no; I could see.
To gain King Gromden's sanction for the succession,
and— The dirt in my mind smudged a picture for me of
what she might look like without clothes and of what a
man might do—well, never mind. I would just go about
my business, fetch the object, bring it to Castle Roogna,
and then get out of this region before the ship hit the
fanny, so to speak. (I think that saying derives from the
time someone accidentally sailed his ship into the pos-
terior of a snoozing giant sea monster. That was not a
smart thing to do.)

We made it to the top of the slope by midday, to our
immense relief. There was a nice green plain loaded with
tall grass and dotted with fruit and nut trees. Here we
could relax and fill up, as we so desperately needed to.

I took three good steps toward the nearest tree—and
tripped over another black spell. This one was in the shape
of a stone. It flared up darkly.

I knew what that meant—and if I hadn't known, I
could have guessed, for my foot was turning to black
stone. Quickly I kicked the spell so hard it flew out over
the edge of the plain and rolled down the embankment
toward the sea. There wasn't much damage it could do
there; most of the slope was already stone. It might be
awkward for the goblin and harpy in the vicinity, and
perhaps the sea monster, but that was all. It wouldn't
catch Pook.

Then I grabbed for a counterspell, for now my other
foot was calcifying, too. Evidently that moment of contact
had been enough for the spell to get the measure of me;

I hadn't stopped its progress merely by kicking it away.
The stone-to-flesh spell had already been expended, but
maybe I wasn't thinking clearly; the dirt fuzzing my brain
could account for that, too. Mostly, I think, I was just
too rushed to make any really smart decision. When one




160

Crewel Lye

feels one's legs getting stoned, one doesn't pause too long

for reflection.

I came up with the white doll. That was the bodies-
exchange spell, to reverse the black spell of that type; I
didn't need that now. But since the spells were all mixed
up, I knew it would be something else. Maybe some other
spell would help, crazy as that notion seems, now that I
can consider it more objectively. "Invoke!" I cried.

The doll flashed—and suddenly I had a vision of an
arrow pointing east.

An arrow? What could that be? Oh—this was the needle
of the compass of the finder-spell for the object I was to
fetch! Now I could find it, since this positive spell was
fresher than the negative one I had encountered atop the

mountain.

But that didn't do me a phenomenal lot of good at the
moment, for my legs were still changing to stone, and my
thighs too. Maybe getting rid of the black spell had weak-
ened the effect, but I had gotten a good dose, and it looked
as if I were going to become a statue. Now what should

I do?

As I hesitated, my hands stiffened, and the hair on my
head became brittle and heavy. My face glazed over. My
breathing got labored, for stone is not very flexible. I felt
myself falling, and felt the thunk as I struck the ground,
hard. I hoped my stone body did not hurt the ground too
much. Then I faded out, as my brains were stoned, too.
This was my third death in the space of a day or two—
not what I would call a very positive record.

Pook watched all this with alarm. He had hardly gotten
me to safety when this happened! But he was smart enough
to realize that if I could recover from getting smashed at
the bottom of the chasm, I might recover from getting
stoned, too. Pook's brains, after all, had not been scram-
bled. So he nosed me over, hooked a chain under my rigid
arms, and dragged me to the shade of the tree I had been
headed for. There he let me lie, while he grazed about
the tree in a widening circle, keeping one eye on me and
the other out for any stray monsters that might pass by.

Creatures did appear. One was a small feline on the

Crewel Lye                     161

prowl for prey, but Pook stomped a forefoot and it fled,
for it was a scaredy cat. A swarm of frisbees flew over,
but they were only interested in flowers. They were shaped
like little disks and they sort of glided down to a flower,
then spun away to the next. A long, dark shape flapped
in, its wings leathery, its body like a thin club; it was a
baseball bat looking for a baseball. There was none here,
as the bases generally held their balls in the evenings, so
it flapped on past. Some June-bugs buzzed me; no, they
were je-june bugs, comparatively dull and uninteresting.
A bird flitted about the tree under which I lay, a brown
thrasher, but there was nothing brown here to thrash, so
it dropped a dropping on my nose, taking me for a statue,
and flew off. Now I understood why sculptures objected
to birds!

Dusk came, creeping guiltily across the plain. Pook
stood near me, making sure nothing bothered me. The
truth is, very little bothers stone figures, apart from ham-
mers and earthquakes and the aforementioned attentions
of birds. But the ghost horse remained as faithful as ever,
trusting me to recover in due course.

His trust was rewarded, for gradually my talent fought
the curse of stone and prevailed. My head returned to
flesh in the night, and my torso, and I began to breathe
again. It was a good thing that Evil Magician Yang hadn't
known about my talent. He thought the stone-spell would
finish me, and he was wrong. Had he suspected, he might
have arranged to have my statue smashed into little pieces
and scattered; I'm not at all sure I could have recovered
from that. Certainly it would have taken a long time, and
probably by then Yang would have been deemed the win-
ner and crowned King.

As dawn dawned, I was able to sit up. Pook gave a
neigh of pleasure; his faith had been justified! But I was
far from well, for my legs and my left arm remained stone,
and my skull felt sort of rocky. Usually my healing ac-
celerated as it neared completion; this time it was stalling.

I realized that my talent had been severely strained. I
had been savaged twice in the tarasque's maze, and killed
twice by Threnody's poison and the fall into the chasm,

162

Crewel Lye

Crewel Lye

163

and this was the fifth bad accident in two days or so. I
had never been killed before faster than once a day, and
usually not that frequently. Also, these had been pretty
thorough killings, not simple to heal. So my talent had at
last exhausted itself and was unable to complete the job
on my body.

Well, I couldn't blame it. In a few hours or days, I
was sure my magic would recover its strength and polish
off the remaining stone; meanwhile, I would have to func-
tion on an as-was basis. In retrospect I conclude that my
talent, having expended its last gasp getting me mostly
restored, lost track of the job and assumed that I was
supposed to be partly stone, for it did not rush to complete
the job when it could have. Just as a man coming into a
strange house does not realize if a chair is out of place,
my reviving talent did not realize that the stone foot and
hand were wrong. But this is only conjecture, long after
the fact; I don't really understand magic.

Pook stood close, and I grabbed onto his chains and
hauled myself to my feet. Then I reached up to harvest
enough of the fruits and nuts growing on the tree to sustain
me. After a while I managed to stand and walk by myself,
though my feet remained stone. It was like walking on
stilts; I could manage, but for traveling I needed the ghost
horse.

Now the day was fairly on us, and the image of the
arrow was in my mind. East—the direction of the object!
I had to go there and find it!

We went east, following the fringe of the monstrous
chasm. Odd, I thought, that no one had warned me of
this natural hazard; it could hardly be overlooked! And
what kind of an object would be hidden here? Well, the
arrow was clear in my mind, showing only a little smudge
along the shaft, doubtless from the dirt in my head, and
I knew I would learn the answer soon. This was, after
all, a good time to have invoked the finder-spell; the object
was evidently close, so the spell tuned in strongly.

We approached Threnody's cabin, perched at the very
brink of the chasm. Obviously the object was beyond it,
so we turned south to give the cabin wide clearance. But

the farther south we went, the more the arrow veered. It
was pointing right at the cabin!

I tried not to believe it, but when we were east of the
cabin, the arrow pointed west. There could be no doubt—
the object was there.

I sighed. I would just have to go and get it. I knew
Threnody would not be pleased; after all, she had already
killed me twice to prevent me from getting the object.
Now I would have to take it from under her nose. But
I'd have to do it quickly and get away from there before
she found some other way to kill me. I couldn't blame
her for not wanting to have someone bring her back to
Castle Roogna, but I did object to being killed, even if it
wasn't too serious a matter.

We went to the house, and I dismounted and knocked
on the door. I heard music inside, rather pretty; she was
playing the stringed instrument I had seen before. When
I knocked, the music halted, and in a moment Threnody
opened the door. She stood aghast as she recognized me;

her mouth fell open and her fair skin paled.

"Got something to pick up," I said gruffly. I would
have been more curt with her, but she was so pretty I
didn't feel as angry as I should have. This is one sort of
foolishness that barbarians are prone to; they tend to be-
lieve, despite significant evidence to the contrary, that
women are as beautiful inside as they are outside. I knew
better; still, the way she had treated me seemed less ob-
jectionable than it might have. "I'll just take it and be
gone in a moment; please stand clear."

She stepped out of my way, her eyes round and staring,
and I brushed by her and rechecked the arrow.

It pointed back toward Threnody. "Okay, you have
it," I said. "I guess you knew it all the time, but didn't
tell me. Hand it over."

"You're dead!" she gasped.

"Not any more; I heal fast," I said gruffly. "Now give
it to me."

"I—don't have anything." She still acted as if she had
seen a ghost; maybe she thought the ghost was me.

"Look, woman—you killed me, so I don't think I owe




164                    Crewel Lye

you anything. Give me that object, or I'll take it from

you."

"I tell you I don't have it," she said, losing some of

her pallor. "I don't even know what it is."

I had had enough. There are limits to what a barbarian
will tolerate from even the prettiest of women, and per-
haps some stone remained in my heart. I grabbed her and
proceeded to search her, patting her body all over.

Threnody did not resist. I didn't find any object on
her, but the arrow still pointed to her. "Maybe it's some-
thing you're wearing," I said. "Take off your clothing."

"I'll do nothing of the kind!" she exclaimed, recovering
her indignity as she got accustomed to the idea of my

being alive.

"Then I'll do it for you," I said and began unbuttoning

her dress.

"You barbarian!" she cried.

"That's right," I agreed, pleased.

She saw I wasn't bluffing. "Oh, all right, I'll undress,"
she said. "I did undress you before, after all." She undid
the rest of her brown dress and stepped out of it. She
wore nothing underneath it. She took off her slippers,
too, and stood completely bare. I picked up her clothing
and set it in a pile on the bed, then stood between her
and it. The arrow pointed directly at her.

I looked closely at her. There was a lot to look at, but
there simply wasn't any object there. "Maybe you ate it,"

I said. "So it's inside you."

"Don't be ridiculous!" she snapped. "I don't want you
cutting me open to verify it isn't there!"

I scratched my head. "I just can't figure it, unless—"
"Unless I am the object you seek," she concluded.
That, of course, was it. Suddenly it made sense. Why
fetch an object to win the throne, then go after an un-
willing woman to marry? How much simpler to fetch the

woman herself!

And if she didn't want to come—might, in fact, even

kill the one who tried to bring her—well, get an ignorant

barbarian to do the job for you.

I had had a low regard for Magician Yang. Now,

Crewel Lye                     165

abruptly. Magician Yin didn't seem phenomenally good
to me, either.

Well, I was stuck for it, since I had agreed to undertake
this mission. Maybe this was what King Gromden had
been trying to warn me about. He hadn't known—be-
cause of the second curse—that Threnody's return to
Castle Roogna would cause it to fall; he just wanted his
daughter back, and married to his successor, so that his
bloodline would remain in power. But he had known she
didn't want to return and would resist any effort to bring
her there with all the forces at her command.

I could see her point, even though I did not approve
of her methods. If I knew that my return to Fen Village
would cause it to be destroyed, I would resist that return
as strongly as I could. Now I felt guilty about what I had
to do—yet I did have to do it. It was not my place to
decide on the larger rights and wrongs of the situation; I
just had to complete the job I had agreed to do.

What a pile of mud this assignment was turning out to
be!

Chapter 10. Demon Striation

Threnody didn 't bother going for her clothes; she
leaped for the door. I intercepted her, knowing she would
be difficult to catch if she got away, as she was bound to
be more familiar with this region than I was. She struck
at my face with her small fist, but I fended her off with
my left arm. "Ow!" she cried. "What are you made of,
oaf?"

"Stone," I said. "My feet and left arm, anyway. I ran
into a spell."




166 Crewel Lye Crewel Lye 167

She relaxed. "Sounds like one of Yang's spells. You
turned partway to stone?"

"More or less," I said, letting her go.

She bolted for the door again, this time getting out.
But she ran smack into Pook, who had thought to back-
stop me. She bounced off his hide, and in a moment I
caught her again. "I just have to take you back," I said.
"I'm sorry, but I agreed to bring back the object and I
will."

"I'm no object!" she protested, struggling in my arms,
but this time I was smart enough not to release her.

"Sure you are," I said. "The object of my mission."

"You'll never take me alive!"

"Listen, you've already killed me," I told her, still
distracted by her motions. If I hadn't already known that
barbarians were often clumsy with women, I'd have sus-
pected it now. "You should know that's no good."

"I'll kill you again!" she said, trying to bite at my shoul-
der. Unfortunately, she picked the wrong one and bruised
her teeth on the stone.

"Well, I'd better get you dressed," I said. I knew it
wasn't right for bare women to be out of the house; the
flies would bite them.

I hauled her into the house, tossed her onto the bed,
and held her down while I wrestled the brown dress onto
her. It wasn't easy, because she was punching and kicking
at me all the time, but finally I got the dress buttoned.

"You oaf!" she snorted. "It's backward!"

I had, of course, put the buttons in the front, where
they belonged, but the fit did look a little awkward. "Does
it matter?" I asked innocently.

"Get off me, you buffoon, and I'll do it right."

I let her go and stepped back. She stood, unbuttoned
the dress—now I saw that I hadn't aligned the buttons
properly, so that the buttons ran off the top while the
holes ran off the bottom—and took it off. She turned it
about—and suddenly leaped for me, the dress stretched
between her hands. She wrapped it about my throat and
twisted it in back, choking me.

But some of the stone remained in my neck, too, and

the choke was not tight. I struggled for a moment, then
let myself relax, feigning unconsciousness. She choked
me a while longer, making sure, then let go. "What am I
going to do with you?" she muttered rhetorically, sup-
posing me to be beyond hearing. "You're basically a de-
cent guy, but if I let you live—"

I grabbed her about the legs and hauled her down again.
"You forgot your dress," I said and spanked her smartly
on her bouncy bottom.

She made a sound as of water dousing an angry fire.
"You're impossible!"

"I'm barbarian," I corrected her. "Now if you don't
get into that dress, I'll wrap a sheet around you and take
you that way."

"This dress is ruined!" she protested. "It's all twisted
up!"

Because she had used it to choke me. "Well, untwist
it."

"I'll get another," she decided. "And you'd better put
something on, too. You look like a zombie."

I realized it was true. Clothes don't heal the way I do.
My shirt was a tatter, and my trousers might as well not
have bothered. A few dangling leather strips were all that
remained of my leather armor.

"You can have this dress," she said, jamming it at me.

Well, it was better than nothing. I would use it until
we passed the trouser-tree in her garden. I put it on. 1
couldn't button the top because my shoulders were too
broad, and the bottom hung halfway to my knees, but it
did provide some cover.

"Backward, again," she remarked.

I did not reply. Apparently a dress was backward no
matter which way a man put it on.

Threnody got a gray dress from her closet and donned
it and her slippers. She stood before a mirror and brushed
out her hair. She had lustrous black tresses, matching her
midnight eyes. I had been partial to fair women, but now
I realized that the dusky ones could be every bit as ap-
pealing, physically. "All right, I'm ready," she informed
me.




168                   Crewel Lye

I took her left arm, to lead her outside—and with her
right hand she struck at me. She had picked up a knife!
The blade dug into my stone arm, harmlessly, its edge
chipping. "Oh, I give up!" she cried in disgust. "I forgot

about that!"                      •                     i
I realized that I could not trust her for a moment. I    '
saw some clothesline vine hanging on a hook. I took it

down.

"Oh, no, you don't!" she cried, making another break

for the door. But she wasn't very strong, despite being
strong for a woman, and I held her and got her hands tied
behind her. I picked up several scratches and a bite in
the process, but I had expected that. She was a hellkitten!
And the dirty truth was, that was every bit as appealing
to me as the milk-and-honey type of woman.

Then I took her out and set her on the ghost horse and
tied her dainty feet to the chains. Pook seemed disgusted
at having to carry her, but he understood. I couldn't trust

her on her own two feet.

It was too bad, I reflected, that women weren't more
like horses. Horses were so much more reasonable.

"My lute!" she exclaimed. "I need my lute!"

"Your what?"
"My lute, bumpkin! My musical instrument. So I can

play and sing."

But I distrusted her motive. She certainly didn't plan
to play music at Castle Roogna, since she believed it
would fall when she got there. She wasn't going to play
for me, since she was fighting me. "Forget it," I said.

Her mouth closed in a hard line. She was really angry
about this—more so, it seemed, than about getting cap-
tured and tied. Women are funny creatures.

"Where is your trouser-tree?" I asked, looking around.

"Forget it!" she snapped.
Ah, well, I should have known. I would simply have

to use the dress.

We started off toward Castle Roogna. I didn't want to
go through the tarasque's maze or over the flesh moun-   '
tain, so I went east instead, along the brink of the chasm,   I
hoping to cut south beyond the range of mountains I had

Crewel Lye                    169

encountered before. Progress was slow, because I had to
walk and keep a constant eye on Threnody as well as on
the landscape. Traveling in Xanth is not much of a picnic,
anyway, and was less so now. My heavy stone feet thunked
into the ground like ogres' pads. I had learned to walk,
but it remained clumsy.

Threnody, evidently getting bored with riding, started
talking. "How did you survive the poison and the fall?"
she asked, as if this were a routine matter of curiosity.
Perhaps it was for her.

I saw no harm in explaining, since I intended to give
her no chance to kill me again. She listened attentively.
"So you can not die," she concluded. "Not to stay."

"Well, it hasn't happened yet," I said. Was she mel-
lowing? I didn't trust it. I had had experience with gentle,
straightforward, loving women, but never before with a
treacherous vixen like this. Maybe she was just trying to
figure out how to kill me permanently. So, despite my
halfway desire to believe her, I remained cautious.

"Demons can't die either," she said.

"That's because they're not alive to begin with," I said.

"Oh, no, they're alive—it's merely a different sort of
life. They have feelings and interests, just as human folk
do."

"Only the evil feelings," I said. "They don't have love
and conscience and integrity."

"Do barbarians?" she asked as if nettled.

"Certainly. We're primitives, closer to nature than civ-
ilized folk are. We care about nature and magic and friend-
ship."

"Do you have any friends?"

"Pook's my friend!"

"A ghost horse!" she sneered.

Pook's ears laid back again, and he made a motion as
if to buck her off, but controlled himself. He certainly
didn't like this woman!

"As I said," I said, "we barbarians are close to nature.
Pook's a fine animal, and I'm proud to be his friend." I
noted as I spoke that now Pook's ears were blushing.

"What about love?"

170

Crewel Lye

Crewel Lye

171

"I love my father and mother—"

She rolled her eyes. "Imbecile! I mean man-woman
love! Have you ever truly loved a woman—or do you
merely use a woman and go your way?"

I pondered. Elsie had been nice, and I liked her—but
if I had really loved her, I would not have left her. As for
Bluebell Elf—there never had been more to that than the
favor I had promised. So the barbarian virtue of integrity
forced me to yield the point, grudgingly. "No, I guess it's
just a passing thing, so far."

"In that you do not differ from a demon," she said,
smugly establishing that point.

"But I could love," I said. "A demon can't."

"True. But what's the big difference between a person
who can't love and one who doesn't love?"

"Listen, I'm no demon!" 1 protested hotly. "What are
you getting at?"

"You are taking me against my will to a castle that will
be destroyed by my presence," she said. "Do you call
that an act of conscience?"

This was uncomfortable, because I had already ex-
perienced a nudge of guilt about it. "I undertook to per-
form a mission," I replied, disgruntled. "My conscience
says I must do what I agreed to do, whatever it is."

"Even when you know it's wrong?"

Now I understood what she was doing. She was trying
to talk me out of it. But some of the intelligence from the
eye-queue spell remained, despite being filtered through
dirt and stone, and I was able to answer her. "How can
you talk to me of right and wrong? You treacherously

killed me twice over!"

"Well, I told you I was sorry!" she snapped. "I didn't
like it, but I had to do it."

"Well, I don't like doing this," I retorted, "but I have

to do it."

"Touche," she murmured. Or something like that.
There's only one human language in Xanth, but this
sounded like another. She was silent for a bit, then started
in again. "You had a normal human barbarian upbring-
ing?"

"Sure. And then I went adventuring."

"And this is your adventure."

"Right. Fighting monsters and spells—good old-fash-
ioned sword and sorcery."

"And kidnapping helpless maidens for a fate worse
than death?"

She certainly had a way with a barb! But I could barb
back, thanks to that dirt in my mind. "Bringing a mur-
deress in to be married."

She mulled that over for a while. Finally she said, "It's
true I tried to kill you, and you have a right to be perturbed
about that. But I knew your mission could cause great
harm to Xanth, so I had to stop it. I still have to stop it,
any way I can. If I can't kill you, maybe I can reason
with you."

Something about that seemed backward to me, but it
did seem better to have her talking than to be coldly silent.
"Reason away," I said. "Barbarians aren't very smart
about things like logic."

"If I employ methods you disapprove of, it's because
I am not a barbarian," she said. "In fact, I'm not precisely
human."

I glanced at her. She was tied to the horse, probably
not in the most comfortable position, but she was a beau-
tiful figure of a woman. Barbarians have an excellent eye
for that sort of thing. "You look pretty good to me."

"Thank you." She made a little curtsy. I don't know
how, since she was astride the horse with her feet tied,
but she did. Women can be remarkably talented in insig-
nificant little ways. "But not all that looks good is good."

"Yeah, like the nice little paths leading up to a tangle
tree," I agreed. It happened that there was a tangle tree
in the distance, and we were avoiding its too-convenient
path. Analogies are easy to come by in Xanth.

"There is something I didn't tell you about my ances-
try."

"You're not the King's daughter?"

"I am his daughter—but the Queen was not my mother.
That's why the Queen resented me so much and finally




172                    Crewel Lye

cursed me. She hated me for what I represented and for
what I was."

"Not your mother?" I repeated blankly. "How is that

possible?"

"You simpleton, not all offspring derives from mar-
riage! I am a bastard."

The word appalled me, coming as it did from so lovely
a creature. Of course I knew what it meant, but it shocked
me to think that she should know it, let alone describe
herself by means of it. "You—the King—?"

"The King was seduced by an unscrupulous temptress
who cared not a whit for him," Threnody said. "I was the
result. My mother conceived me purely as a challenge;

she had no interest in keeping me, only in embarrassing
her lover. And that she did—by turning me over to King
Gromden and proclaiming my origin."

"But—but that's inhuman!" I exclaimed.

"Naturally—considering the nature of my mother."

"No decent woman would—"

"But, you see, my mother was neither decent nor a

woman."

"But—" I skidded to a verbal halt, confused. "You're
obviously not a half-breed, like a centaur or harpy or
werewolf. You're human!"

"Half human."

"I don't understand!"

"My mother is a demoness."

A female demon! Still it did not explain everything.
"King Gromden wouldn't—not with a demoness—he's
a good man!"

Threnody smiled grimly. "So it would be nice to be-
lieve. But the fact is, human beings are sometimes naive
and often vulnerable. I love my father and know he's a
good man. Therefore I have spent some time rationalizing
this matter of my birth. It is necessary to understand that
the Queen, my foster mother, was not the most attractive
of women and was no longer in her prime, while the King
was a virile man. He had married her for practical reasons,
to help unify the diverging subcultures ofXanth. She was
from a village in the south that had felt neglected, among

Crewel Lye                    173

the so-called curse-fiends, who are actually human but
live apart from others. They are said to be great actors.
When he married one of their women, it cemented their
loyalty to Castle Roogna and strengthened the throne. He
really was trying to do what was best for Xanth! But she
was barren and, in any event, not much interested in
storks."

"I know about storks," I murmured.

"Then you know that they do not choose the couples
to whom they deliver; they must wait for the couples to
summon them. They merely fill those orders that have
been properly entered. It is a peculiarity of their nature."

"Yes. And they always deliver to the woman, no matter
how hard the man works for the baby. I don't think that's
fair."

She laughed. "Many things in life and magic aren't fair,
barbarian! So this meant that if the King wanted a baby,
he had to make arrangements through some woman other
than the Queen. I think that was in his mind when the
dusky demoness came to him. Maybe there were other
things in his mind, too—men can be quite superficial
about such things—but I must believe that he really did
want me."

"Of course he did!" I exclaimed. "And he wants you
back home now! That must be why he agreed to this—"

"And I don't think he knew the nature of my mother.
You see, a demon can assume any form. So she became
the most beautiful woman anyone could imagine, mid-
night of hair and eye, perfect in every physical detail—"

"You favor her," I said.

"Be quiet, imbecile!" she said angrily. "My mother was
a terrible creature! She had absolutely no conscience.
Demons are soulless; they have no human values, just
human passions. She wanted to make mischief for the
human folk, and she knew the most telling way to do that
was to compromise and humiliate the human King. So
she assumed a ravishing form and came to him with a
story about being outcast from her distant village and
needing help and protection, and when she got him alone—
oh, you don't know what lying is until you've seen a




174

Crewel Lye

Crewel Lye

175

demon do it! She—well, she got him to help summon the
stork, and the stork took the order for me, and when my
mother was assured of that, she laughed and changed into
the semblance of a Mundane monster called a crock-o-
dile so he would know what she was without any further
illusion, and then she became a puff of laughing gas and
faded out. The King was mortified when he realized he
had been with a demoness, but it was too late."

"Poor King Gromden," I agreed. Now I remembered
that there had been a passing mention of scandal at Castle
Roogna; that reference was coming clear.

"And when the stork delivered me, she had the other
part of her terrible fun—causing everyone in Castle
Roogna to know what the King had done. She brought
me openly to him in broad daylight, when the King and
all the people of the castle were at dinner, and set me
down before him, saying, 'Here is your bastard baby, 0
adulterous King! Dare you deny it?' And the King, being
an honest man, whatever other weaknesses he may have
had, did not deny it, perhaps in part because he knew I
would fare ill indeed if he refused to accept me. In that
sense I was the cause of his loss of respect in Xanth. Then
my demon-mother vanished in another puff of smoke,
only her cruel laugh remaining. She had deceived the
King, ruined his reputation, and forever finished any de-
cent relation he might have had with the Queen. After
that, the people associated with the castle began drifting
away, each one finding some important business else-
where, and of course the King could not say nay. He had
been rendered impotent by the crudest of lies. When the
Queen cursed me, there were fewer than a dozen people
remaining there."

"There are only a couple now," I said.

"Only the ultimately loyal," she said wryly. "People
resemble demons in some respects, but they react more
slowly and make excuses for their dereliction, while the
demons act swiftly and without apology. I wish I could
be with my father now and provide the support he needs.
But I can not; that curse prevents." She shook her head
as if clearing it of distress. "So now you see why I had

to go. I don't blame my foster mother the Queen. My
presence was demoralizing the whole region, simply be-
cause of my origin; I was a constant reminder of the
King's peccadillo. The King never held this against me,
but the others did—at the same time as they condemned
him for that error. They magnified it grotesquely—"
Threnody paused to choke back her rising emotion. "I
don't think much of the average human being."

"It's better among the barbarians," I said. "We would
never—"

"It was getting difficult for the King to govern Xanth
effectively. The Queen had no love for the King, but she
did see the need for Xanth to be unified. She knew that
could not be while I remained at Castle Roogna, and she
knew the King would never send me away himself, so
she arranged for me to take myself away. Her curse made
it plain to me that I was destroying Xanth. I had been
unable to see it until she made it literal. If I was going to
destroy Xanth as the seat of effective government, why
not bring the castle down, too, and complete the job? So
she was right; she did what had to be done, and I don't
hate her for it. I had been a child; I grew up in a few
hours and I left Castle Roogna forever."

I felt the impact other story,but I remained suspicious.
"You said she was jealous of you."

"She was. I don't say she wasn't petty in some ways;

that's part of what had alienated her from the King before
my mother stepped in. I was beautiful, while she was not,
and the King loved me and not her; that was grounds for
resentment, though I had not intended any evil. She never
made any attempt to relate to me, and so I had neither
mother nor foster mother. She shares some of the blame.
No one's hands are entirely clean in this. But she was
right about me, and about the need to make me leave."

"Then why did she curse the King to forget why you
left?"

Threnody shrugged. "I exaggerated. My father never
understood why I left. He was absolutely blind to any
negative thing about me. I was his favorite and only child,
and he wanted me to inherit the throne after him. Of




Crewel lye

176

course that was impossible for several reasons, and I al-
ways knew that, but it shows how he felt. No curse was
needed to make him forget. He simply refused, and still
refuses, to believe that my presence is bad for Castle
Roogna in any literal or figurative manner. He thinks of
me as his darling little girl."

Some darling! But I knew how fathers could dote on
their daughters; I would, if I had the chance. "Well, aren't

you?"

"Damn it, I'm half demon!" she flared. "Have you any

idea what that means?"

I shrugged. "That you're a crossbreed. That you have
some human and some demon traits. Xanth has a lot of
crossbreeds. I happen to know of an upcoming humanY

elven crossbreed—"

"You fool, it means I have no soul!" There was the

anger of despair in her tone.

"I don't know much about souls," I said. "But I thought
they came with human ancestry. Since your father is hu-
man—"

"A human parent means a soul is possible, not that it

is guaranteed. I suppose the chances were even for me—-
but since the delivery was to the demoness, not the human
man, I lost. I didn't get one." Her voice was flat and cold.

"How do you know?" I asked, genuinely curious. I had
some concern for the son the stork would bring to Blue-
bell; would he have no soul?

"Do people with souls kill passing strangers?" she de-
manded.

I pondered, taken aback by the point. "I'm human," I

said after a bit. "I'm ready to kill strangers if they attack
me. I'm a barbarian warrior; I live by my sword. It de-
pends on the circumstance. In war—"

"This isn't war! You came to me injured, and I poi-
soned you and dumped you into the Gap."

There was that. "But you said you were sorry."
"Big deal! I'm also sorry you returned to capture me."
"But demons have no conscience," I pointed out.

"They're never sorry."

"You're wrong, ignoramus. They can be sorry—when

Crewel Lye                     177

a plot turns out bad. Like my killing of you. It didn't
work, so my effort was for nothing. I'm sorry you ever
set foot on this misguided mission."

"But you said you were sorry before you knew I would
recover," I persisted. "I remember hearing that, just be-
fore I died."

"I say a lot of things," she said irritably, but she seemed
slightly mollified. "I also inherit the demon capacity for
lying, the more cruelly the better. You can't afford to
believe anything I say."

I found this confusing, but there had to be some truth
in it. If a person tells you he's a truth-teller, he may be
lying; but if he tells you he's a liar, he has to be telling
the truth, ironically. Because a truth-teller could never
call himself a liar; be could become a liar by that state-
ment. A liar, in contrast, can't lie all the time, because
that makes it too obvious; people start interpreting what
he says the opposite way, so he becomes a truth-teller in
reverse. It's confusing, but Magician Yin had helped clar-
ify this matter for me. So I had to believe that Threnody
could lie, and that therefore she spoke the truth when she
warned me to be wary of anything she said. "Maybe so,"
I agreed. "But you could still have a soul. Some human
beings are liars, like Magician Yang, and you're more
human than demon."

"No, I'm not! I can't love!"

"Now that's a lie right there! What about your father?
You said you love him."

"I lied!" she cried without conviction.

"I don't believe you. I think you're lying now. You do
love him. Therefore you can love, and you do have a—"

"You're a fool to believe me!"

"Then why do you care what happens to the King, or
to Castle Roogna? Why don't you just come along with
me without protest, and watch the castle crumble, and
laugh as it falls? What does any soulless one care about
the welfare of Xanth?"

She looked at me with a peculiar mixture of relief and
frustration, but did not answer my questions. I was sat-
isfied; she might be a liar, but she was more human than




178                    Crewel Lye

demon. Her humanity, ironically, was proved by the man-
ner in which she opposed me.

And what of my soul? If I believed her, I could not
afford to deliver her to Castle Roogna. So I had to believe
that she had lied about the curses and just didn't want to
marry Yin. I couldn't blame her for wanting to make her
own life instead of getting tied down to a family; I was
that way myself. But that was no reason for me to ab-
rogate my own mission.

I was, of course, a fool in several respects, but I didn't

know that then.

We moved on, and gradually the terrain changed. The

trees and brush thinned out, and the ground became sandy.
"You'll never get through here," Threnody said.

"Why not?"

"I know this region. This is slowsand."
"Seems ordinary to me," I said, undaunted.
"You'll see, barbarian," she said confidently.
The patches of sand became larger, until finally they
linked and we had to walk through them, rather than
remain on rock and turf. But as Pook and I stepped on
the sand, we slowed. Our steps became measured, then
dragging; we seemed unable to move at normal speed.
"What's this?" I asked, surprised.

"I told you," Threnody said. "Slowsand."
Now I understood. "It slows us down!"
"To a crawl. We'll starve before we get through here."
Fortunately, this was only a thin barrier, with more
hard land beyond. After a tedious trek, Pook and I made
it out of the sand and resumed normal velocity. Now we
stayed off the sand, however circuitous the route had to
be. But this became difficult and finally impossible. The
level region between the mountains and the chasm turned
into a desert of slowsand. We had to go around it—but
there was no way through the chasm to the north, so it
had to be the slopes to the south.

We meandered that way, our progress slowed almost
as much by the deviousness of the necessary route as by
the sand itself. The last section before the slope had a
strand of sand cutting us off; Pook hurdled it—and slowed

Crewel Lye

179

in midair so that he seemed to be floating. He wasn't; he
was merely in mid-jump. But it took about fifteen seconds
for him to make it to the opposite bank. I jumped, too,
with the same effect, so we were both crawling through
the air. The slowsand affected creatures above it as well
as on it.

"Won't do you much good," Threnody said smugly.
"Farther along, there's quicksand."

Quicksand. Obviously that would speed us up as much
as the slowsand slowed us down. "I'll risk it," I said
gruffly.

"Suit yourself, idiot."

"Anything that happens to Pook and me happens to
you, too," I pointed out.

"Since I'd rather die than betray my father by return-
ing, that's all right."

We got well clear of the sand by ascending the gentle
slope of the foot of the mountain range. But now dusk
was looming. We stopped under a spreading chest-nut
tree whose chests were loaded with nuts; no problem
about food here. I unbound Threnody's feet so she could
dismount. She reacted without gratitude. "How do you
expect me to eat or whatever with my hands tied?"

"Whatever?" I asked.

"I'll do it behind the tree."

Oh. Embarrassed, I untied her hands. "But you must
give me your word you won't try to escape."

"Sure," she said wryly, chafing her wrists. Then she
went behind the tree, while I reached up to harvest a
chest of nuts.

It turned out to be a fine selection: Q-nuts and P-nuts;

green pistachios; blue, red, and hazel nuts; soft, yellow
butter nuts; sandy beach nuts; even a small brown cocoa-
nut; plus a few bolts for good measure; and even some
washers. That was convenient; I used a washer to wash
my grubby hands.

After a time, I realized that Threnody hadn't returned
from her errand behind the tree. I hesitated to go and
look, since I never really did understand how women
managed these things and preferred not to inquire, so I




180                    Crewel Lye

called, phrasing it discreetly: "Hey-

-did everything come

out all right?"

There was no answer. Suddenly nervous, I went and

looked.

Sure enough. Threnody was gone.

I had been a fool again. Well, I would just have to track
her down. I could follow the traces through the brush and
weeds of the slope, and if she had gone down into the
slowsand plain, I'd be able to see her, despite the en-
croaching darkness.

I found no traces. Perplexed, I hesitated. Could she
be so adept at hiding that she left no trail? Then my lin-
gering intelligence provided me a notion; use my lingering
compass sense! I tuned it in—and the arrow pointed up

into the tree.

I smiled. That was a neat ploy—hide, and when I

dashed off in a fruitless search for her, she could come
down and proceed without pursuit. Whatever her half-
demon parentage might have cost her, it wasn't clever-
ness.

Well, two could play at that game. I finished my meal

of nuts, then climbed the tree myself. I settled on a com-
fortable lower branch and slept.

After an hour or so, she climbed quietly down. She
tried to pass me, but of course I woke and caught her leg.
"Going somewhere, woman?" I inquired.

"Damn!" she swore, trying to yank her leg free. But I
held on, sliding my hand up for a better grip. She was my

prisoner again.

"You told me you wouldn't try to escape," I chided

her.

"I also told you I was a liar," she reminded me. "It's

my demon heritage."

"Then I'll just have to tie you again," I said regretfully.
"How do you expect me to sleep if you tie me?" she

demanded.

I pondered. "Very well. I won't bind you hand and

foot; I'll tie you to me, so you can't go without me." I
brought her to the ground and used a cord to tie her right
wrist to my left one. I made the knots too tight to untie

Crewel Lye                     181

readily; barbarians are good at that sort of thing. Since
she had no knife, she wouldn't be able to free herself
without alerting me.

"How do you know I won't strangle you in your sleep?"
she asked as we lay there in the dark beneath the tree.

"I wouldn't stay dead, and if you start wrestling with
me at night, I might forget that I'm saving you for marriage
to Yin!" I replied.

"Barbarian!" she spat, and somehow it didn't sound
like a compliment.

"Precisely." I thought that would shut her up. As I've
said, barbarians don't really force themselves on unwill-
ing women; that's just hype put out by the Barbarian
Publicity Department. Image is very important to our kind,
even when the reality falls short.

I hadn't shut her up, though. "If I have to," she said
warningly, "I'll use my talent."

"Oh? What's your talent?" I asked, interested. Of
course she had a talent; everyone did. But some talents
were better than others. Some people were proud of their
ability to make a dust mote bounce in the air. Maybe hers
was better.

"Striation."

"What?"

"It derives from my heritage, lout. Demon-striation."

"Oh." I didn't care to admit that this still didn't make
much sense to me, so I let it be. Only those who are not
ignorant feel free to confess their ignorance. "Well, you
do what you want, only let me sleep."

"I will," she agreed.

I slept, and there was no jerk on the line and no attempt
to strangle. But when I checked automatically after an
hour or so, I discovered that she was gone. The cord
remained undisturbed, the loop that had been about her
wrist now empty. Somehow she had slipped it.

I got up immediately, activating my finder-spell. It
showed her nearby; apparently she had only freed herself
in the past few minutes. "Going somewhere, King's
daughter?^ I inquired.




182

Crewel Lye

"Oh!" she cried, furious. "Why couldn't you stay asleep

longer?"

I brought her back to the tree. "How did you slip the
loop?" I asked. "It's too small for your hand to pass
through, small and fine as your hand is."

"I told you, oaf: striation."

"Demon-striation," I agreed, realizing she was not about
to tell me her secret. I hung onto her hand so she couldn't
flee again, regretting that the contact was for this antag-
onistic reason instead of for a positive one. It was indeed
a fine little hand; she was nicely formed in every part.
"Since the cord's no good, I'll just have to hold you di-
rectly."

"I'll kick, scratch, and bite," she warned me.

"I'll heal."

"It will hurt, though, and you won't get much sleep."

"I'll make you a deal," I said. "You don't kick, scratch,
and bite me, and 1 don't let the dirt in my mind tell me

what to do with you."

"You—you waw!" she exclaimed in a cute little fury.
I guess she realized that I wasn't bluffing and that I half-
way hoped she would abort the deal.

I wrapped my arms about her as she lay beside me and
settled back for sleep. My stony left arm was hardly aware
of her, but my right arm tingled from the contact with her
soft body. She struggled a little, evidently considering the
kick-scratch-bite-dirt route, then relaxed. She laid her head
down next to mine, so that her black hair tickled my nose,

and she slept.

As dawn crept reluctantly in, I woke—to find my arms
empty. Threnody was gone again—and my arms had not
been disturbed. How in Xanth had she managed that?

I tuned in on her with the arrow. She was threading
her way past the slowsand, going home. I went down and
caught her again, lassoing her from the edge of the sand
so that I could move faster than she could. But I was
more curious than angry. "I was holding you in my arms
that time; how did you escape?"

"You can not hold me," she said.

Evidently not! There was something very odd about

Crewel Lye

183

her. But I put that from my mind for the moment. "Well,
have some nuts and we'll get moving."

She had some nuts, and we got moving. This time I
didn't tie her, but I watched her, and she did not try to
escape. We moved on around the mountain slopes.

Then I spied a cloud looming from the east. It sparkled
iridescently. I peered at it. "I don't trust that type." Ac-
tually, barbarians don't trust anything they don't under-
stand; it's a necessary paranoia in the wilderness. That
was the main reason I didn't trust Threnody.

"It's a technicolor hailstorm," she said. "They develop
in this region; I think it's because of interactions between
the slowsand and the quicksand, generating fierce con-
vections. Better get under cover."

"Cover—from a hailstorm?" I asked derisively. "We'll
ignore it."

"Suit yourself, moron."

I didn't like either the storm or her attitude, but there
wasn't much to do but move on. We did so, and the storm
loomed massively, seeming almost solid in the sky,
spreading out until it blotted out much of the welkin. I
heard a low, throbbing, sad melody; I looked, and dis-
covered it was Threnody, singing. "What are you doing?"
I demanded.

"I'm singing the dirge of our demise," she replied. "I'm
good at that sort of thing; that's how I got my name. But
I do better when I have my lute."

She was still angry about not being permitted to bring
her musical instrument. Actually, it would have hampered
her attempts to escape—which meant that I might have
been better off to let her bring it. But I had a more im-
mediate concern. "Demise? From a mere hailstorm?" I
asked incredulously.

"Well, maybe you'll recover after it passes, since you
can return from death. The rest of us won't."

I didn't like the sound of this, and I saw Pook's ears
perking up with alarm. He was a ghost horse, but if the
living aspect of him died, he would be just a ghost. And
if Threnody died, my mission would be finished; I was

184                     Crewel Lye

sure it would not count if I delivered a dead body to Castle

Roogna.

"Okay, I'll seek cover." I cast about and saw a small

stand of timber trees upslope. We moved to them. I used
my sword to chop the timbers and used the timbers to
construct a pointed edifice, then bound it tightly at the
top with cord and wedged its base into the ground below.
I think this type of construction is called a tee-warn; it's
useful in an emergency. I wrapped bark about it, tying it
in place. It was a crude structure, but sturdy. We crowded
into it, the three of us, just as the first hailstones struck.

"You're pretty good at this," Threnody remarked in-
differently.

"It's a barbarian skill," I said, foolishly flattered.
"Live and leam! I didn't know barbarians were good
at anything except kidnapping helpless damsels."

"That, too," I agreed.

A hailstone struck the shelter with a crash like that of
solid rock. I jumped. I peered out—and another stone
just missed my head, thunking into the ground so hard it
made a formidable dent. It was green and pitted.

I reached out and grabbed it before it rolled away.
"Hey—this is a real stone!" I cried.

"What did you expect?" she asked. "Colored ice?"

"Well, yes. Little light balls of ice."

"Maybe elsewhere. Here it hails real stones."

So it did. Another struck the shelter and rolled away.
I could see them falling all around, red and blue and or-
ange and brown. They were pretty—but any one of them
would have brained a person or animal. Maybe that was
why we had encountered no large animals in this region;

only the small ones could hide from this sort of storm.
Threnody had been right to urge shelter.

We could not travel while the storm raged, so we waited,
huddled together. Threnody was astride Pook, and I be-
side, my torso against her left leg. She resumed her song
of lamentation. Pook's ears were laid back; he didn't like
either her or the song. But I thought both were rather
pretty. That leg certainly was! I wished again that things
were more positive between us.

Crewel Lye                     185

The storm raged for an hour. I snoozed on my feet,
leaning against the leg. When the storm finally abated, I
woke, finding myself leaning against Pook's side. I looked
about. Threnody was gone again. "Hey—where is she?"
I asked.

Pook had been snoozing too. He woke with a start.
He sniffed the air, but was as baffled as I. It was amazing
how she could depart without alerting us.

I used the arrow again. It was slowly fading as time
passed, but was enough to do the job. It pointed west.
Threnody was headed for home again.

We emerged from the shelter, which was now sadly
battered by the stones, and hurried west around the slope.
Soon we caught up to her. She hadn't gotten very far.
She was moving very slowly, though she wasn't in the
slowsand.

I charged up and caught her by the arm—and my hand
passed through it. "You're a ghost!" I exclaimed, ap-
palled. "You went out too soon and got clonked by a
hailstone and now you're dead!"

"No, I'm just diffuse, lout," she said faintly.

I passed my hand through her body. Sure enough, there
was some resistance, like that of thin water or thick fog.
She was more substantial than a ghost, though not by
much.

"You're pretty fresh, barbarian!" she informed me as
my hand emerged from her chest.

I jerked my fingers back guiltily. "What happened to
you?"

"It's my talent," she explained. "Striation. I'd have
been long gone, if I hadn't encountered a headwind. It's
hard to fight a wind in this state."

I saw that it was so. A gust of wind passed and almost
blew her off her feet. She hardly weighed anything at all.
"You can just thin out?"

"I told you I have demon parentage. Demons can turn
to smoke and change size and shape."

"But if you can do that, why did you ever let me tie
you?"

"I can't do it fast," she said bitterly. "It takes an hour




186

Crewel Lye

Crewel Lye

187

just to change one aspect—and you never gave me more
than an hour to myself."

I almost felt guilty. "The loop of rope!" I exclaimed.
"You diffused out of it!"

"Of course." She was slowly becoming more solid.
"And I diffused enough so that the hailstones couldn't
hurt me. But the storm stopped too soon, so you weren't
confined, and this stupid headwind—"

1 had started to wonder how I could hold her when she
was smoky-diffuse, but now I realized that all it would
take was a fan to blow her anywhere I wanted her to go.
Her escape had been slow because of the air resistance,
which was much more formidable for her than for those
of us in the solid state.

"You say this is just one aspect? You can change other

ways too?"

"Oh, you might as well know it all," she said with angry
resignation. "You seem to have the blundering luck of
ignorance. Demons can change form instantly; that's why
my mother was able to fool King Gromden, who would
never have touched her if he had known. Her natural
appearance was horrendous, but she emulated the human
form so well that nobody could tell the difference. But
I'm only half demon, so I can't operate as well. I can only
do one aspect at a time. If I want to be big or small, I
have to take an hour for that. But then I'm either diffuse
or concentrated—a smoky giant or a super-solid midget—
until I change my density to match. That takes another
hour. Because my mass hasn't changed, only my size.
And if I want to be in the likeness of a normal mouse, it
takes a third hour to get the shape right. If only you'd let
me be for three hours!"

1 was amazed. This creature was more of a handful
than I had known. She might have changed into a dragon
and devoured me—had I given her time.

"I can't see why Yin would want to marry you," I said.

"Of course he doesn't want to marry me!" she cried.
"He's only doing it to provide continuity of a sort, so the
human beings of Xanth will accept him readily as King
and not hold it against him that he's filling Gromden's

shoes. It's the same for Yang. They have only politics in
mind. I don't want to marry either of them."

"But if your arrival was such a scandal, the people
wouldn't want you to marry the new King," I objected.

"The common folk don't know my origin. It was strictly
a palace scandal. No one tells the common folk anything."

I sighed. "I'm sorry about having to bring you in,
Threnody. I really am. But a barbarian always keeps his
word. Maybe you can escape, after I turn you in."

"Escape from a Magician?" she demanded bitterly. "I
was able to avoid them in the forest; I threatened to throw
myself into the Gap Chasm if either one of them came
near. That's why I set up a chute right in my house. But
I can't do that at Castle Roogna." I saw her vaporous
tears as she spoke. "I'd rather die than marry one of
them—but I won't have any choice, thanks to you, you
unfeeling wretch."

I nodded glumly. I was a wretch, but I was not un-
feeling. I felt awful.

We returned to the shelter, and within an hour Thren-
ody was solid again. There was not enough time left in
the day to warrant more travel, so we remained where
we were. The nearby trees had been badly battered by
the hailstones, but we were able to forage for fruits that
had been knocked to the ground.

Now how was I to keep Threnody captive during the
night? Her demon-striation talent meant I could not hold
her physically.

Not physically—but how about emotionally? A small
ruse might simplify things considerably. It was certainly
worth a try.

I went out at dusk, circling our camp as if looking for
something. I put my hand on my sword. "I wish I had my
bow," I muttered nervously.

"What's the matter?" Threnody called. "You plan to
put an arrow through me next time I escape?"

"Oh, I wouldn't want to worry you," I said, shading
my eyes with my stone hand and peering into the gloom.
"They probably won't attack in the night anyway."

"What won't attack?" she demanded.




188                    Crewel Lye

"The traces aren't really fresh," I said. "Couple days
old, at least, so they're probably gone. Do you smell
anything fresher, Pook?"

Pook sniffed the air, then shook his head no. He was
smart enough to play along.

"What are gone?" Threnody asked, annoyed by the
mystery. I knew the feeling!

"The harpies, of course," I said.

"There are no harpies in these parts!"

"That's what I said. They seem to be confined to the
cliffsides. This flock was probably just passing through,
and won't be back."

She was silent. We settled down for the night. "You
take the shelter," I said. "I'll sleep outside."

"Aren't you going to hold me?"

"It doesn't do any good," I pointed out. "You can slip
any tie, any grasp. I guess you could have done it anytime
when you were riding, but you didn't want me to see."

"True, barbarian. My talent's more effective when it's
secret." She considered. "Still, you can hold me if you
want to. It might give you earlier warning."

"No, I think I'd better remain outside," I said, glancing
nervously about as if aware of a harpy. Then I put my
right hand on the hilt of my sword and lay down.

"Suppose the harpies come, and you're asleep?" she
asked.

"There are no harpies in these parts," I reminded her.
But I unsheathed my sword.

She grimaced, then lay down in the shelter. Pook grazed
on the slope. I slept; barbarians can nod off instantly and
wake instantly, in the manner of other animals.

There was a rustle in the night, as of some winged
nocturnal predator. I woke just long enough to identify it
as a genuine bird, harmless to us, and slept again. But in
a moment I felt a body beside me. "You'd better hold
onto me," Threnody murmured. "I might try something
foolish."

Uh-huh. It seemed my ploy was working. Nobody
sleeps well when harpies are about. "Suit yourself, demon-
spawn."




Crewel Lye                     189

She nudged closer, warm and soft. "I'm truly sorry I
killed you, Jordan."

Now she was calling me by my name. "You're also a
liar."

She struck at me. "Damn you!"

A point for me. But her body was delectable, touching
mine, and I wished for the umpteenth time that things
were otherwise.

"This is a lie, too," she said after a moment. Her head
came over mine, and she kissed me on the mouth, firmly
and lingeringly.

The irony was, I knew it was a lie. Threnody cared
nothing for me alive. She just wanted to lull me into com-
placency so she could escape. I'm pretty naive about
women, but there are limits to naivete, and I do learn
quickly enough from experience. Yet a part of me wanted
to believe that a lovely creature like this, a King's daugh-
ter, demon or not, could really care for me.

"I guess I know how it was with King Gromden," I
muttered when she released my lips.

She stiffened, then laughed ruefully. "I swore I'd never
do to a man what my mother did to my father. I guess I
lied about that, too." Then she put her face down against
my shoulder, and it became wet there.

Could a soulless creature cry? I wondered. Probably
could, I decided, but never would. Except to deceive.
Still... "You okay?" I asked.

"Oh, I am a cursed creature!" she sobbed.

Literally true. I knew myself for a fool, but I couldn't
help it. Sometimes a man just has to be a fool, if he's a
man. I put my arms about her and held her close to me,
not to prevent her from escaping, but because it was nec-
essary to do.

She cried for a while, and then she slept, and after a
while I did, too.

One other thing bothered me, though. I woke, thinking
of it, and finally I murmured to the night sky: "There
really aren't any harpies here."

190                     Crewel Lye

"I know it," Threnody murmured back. I had thought
she was asleep.

But in the morning she was still there. This night she
had not tried to escape.

Chapter 11. Sword and Stone

We followed the slope as it curved around to
the south and, when we had left the slowsand region be-
hind, we returned to the level land. Normal animal life
returned; I had to dispatch a griffin and a river monster
that menaced us, but that was routine. In another day we
should be at Castle Roogna.

"You know I don't want to go there," Threnody re-
minded me, her eyes very big and dark.
"I know."

"You know Castle Roogna will fall."
"I don't know. You could be lying."
"I could get very friendly, if you cared to delay the
"journey a while. It wouldn't seem like a lie to you at all."
"I know.':

"I could even get to like you for real, if—"
"1 don't know. You'll say anything to get your way."
"Let me show you how friendly I can be when I try."
"I'd be a fool." Of course I was a fool, for I was sorely
tempted. She might be a completely selfish, lying demon-
creature, but she was beautiful, and barbarians appreciate
physical beauty more than they do mental beauty. So I
fended off her advances, not because I feared her body,
but because I feared what her body could do to my mind.
But my resolve was weakening.

"I can still change form and escape you," she said.
"But without my arm and sword to protect you, you

would be vulnerable to the monsters ofXanth," I pointed
out. "That's why you are no longer trying to flee. There
may be no harpies here, but there are other creatures."
What little remained of the smart-spell had enabled me
to work it out. "When you change form, you may look
like some other creature, but you aren't. You can assume
the form of a bird, but you can't fly—not unless you
become so diffuse as to be as light as the air, and then
the wind will blow you away. It takes a lifetime to learn
to fly properly."

She shrugged, not denying it. "Actually, I can do some
of the things the animals I emulate do, but it is true that
flying is a very specialized discipline, and certainly I would
not be good at it; I'd probably blunder into the nearest
tree and be easy prey for any winged predator."

"And you probably haven't practiced it much, because
of the danger. You need skill as well as form. So your
talent is limited at the moment."

"When you threatened me with the harpies, I realized
that was true. There is always something in Xanth to prey
on the unwary or unprotected. You're a primitive man;

you have muscle and a sword and you like to fight. You
can handle strange territory and slay monsters inciden-
tally. But once you got me more than a day's journey
from my home—" She spread her hands. "I may have a
heart of stone, but the monsters don't care about that.
They'll eat my flesh in a moment—and I can't recover
the way you can."

"So I'm the sword and you're the stone," I said, con-
scious of the irony, since part of me really was stone now.

"Yes. If 1 had your body, I could go right home."

"You can assume my likeness," I said.

"I suppose I could," she agreed, tilting her head in
temporary reflection. "But I wouldn't have your skill with
the swordy or the power of your masculine muscles, or
your ability to heal so fast when wounded. So that's no
good."

"If I had your body, I'd be a lovely creature," I said.

"I'm not beautiful in my soul—if I have one at all."

I had no answer to that. Threnody was the first pretty

192                    Crewel Lye

woman I had known who was demonstrably ugly in her
origin and nature—literally demon-strably—and I still
had difficulty reconciling that combination. I kept wanting
to believe she was as lovely inside as out and that her
evident intelligence translated to good personality. Some-
times I almost succeeded. Certainly she was not all evil,
even though she was far from all good. This just isn't the
kind of problem a barbarian is fit to cope with. Life is
simpler when the alternatives are flat good or flat evil,
clearly labeled. And correctly labeled!

At noon we came to a pleasant grove of ances-trees.
Each had a solid base that soon split into two major
branches, and these split into four, and thence to eight,
until at the fringe there were so many little branches that
the eye lost track. The bark was corrugated and thus
resembled printed words; sometimes I wished I could
read, so that I could contemplate my own family tree.

"I can read," Threnody said. "It's a skill required of
royal children. But 1 don't care to be reminded of my

demon branches."

We went on and came to a pattern of artis-trees, ep^
a many-splendored thing, with ornate multicolored leaves
and sculptured lines. We paused, awed by the sheer mag-
nificence of this display.

One tree was dead—but its skeletal form was impres-
sive, each branch perfectly contoured, the whole a marvel
of symmetry. There was a hole in the base of its trunk,
and even this was beautifully arched, so that it resembled
a doorway to some sublime realm.

We walked toward it—and suddenly at my feet a small
black sword flashed. Quickly it expanded to full-sword
size, a thing of glistening, dark iron, suspending itself
menacingly before me. I had heedlessly blundered into
another of Yang's evil spells! When would I learn to watch
out more carefully for them?

My own sword was in my hand, for barbarian reflexes
are necessarily swift. "Get clear of me!" I cried to Pook
and Threnody. "This thing's dangerous!"

Indeed it was! The black sword slashed viciously at
me, and it was all I could do to parry the blade in time.

Crewel lye                     193

As it was, the power of its blow drove me back and shook
my arm. Nothing was wielding that sword, but it felt as
if there were an invisible giant behind it.

I had fended off its cut, but the black weapon recovered
with horrible quickness and struck at me from the other
side. I parried again, and again felt the shock of the col-
lision. Sparks flew from the place where the two blades
met, and mine was nicked. Of course, it was already bat-
tered and slightly bent from its fall into the—well, I didn't
remember quite where, but it had fallen somewhere. Yet
a blade that could so casually nick this one—

The evil sword whirled about in the air, danced over
my head, and slashed at me from behind. I threw myself
aside, avoiding it, but the moment it missed, it reoriented
and came at me again. I fell to the ground, barely getting
my blade around to biock the thing. Never before had I
been subjected to as savage an attack by a sword as this!
I prided myself on my expertise with the sword; it was
one of those things barbarians specialized in. My sword
was the only reason I had no real fear of tangle trees or
griffins—albeit a healthy respect for them; I could strike
with it before such monsters could get me. Dragons were
more difficult, because of their steam or fire and their
scale armor, but of course dragons were the top of the
predatory chain. So my sword was my strength. How-
ever, this was no beak or tentacle I faced; it was another
sword. It struck and struck again, and a third time in as
many seconds. Then, realizing it could not get me with a
frontal or rear attack, it spun to the side and lunged.

I scrambled halfway to my feet, but had to dive clear
again, rolling on the ground. The black sword sliced at
my feet, missing no opportunity. 1 jerked them clear, and
it struck the ground so hard where they had been it seemed
the very land would cleave asunder. I fought my way
back to my feet in time to parry the next strike.

I normally have plenty of muscle, speed, and coordi-
nation. I had died three to five times recently, but the
past three days had enabled me to recover almost com-
pletely, except for my stone extremities. (Say—I should
have let the sword strike my feet! How could it hurt them?)

194

Crewel Lye

So I fought very well—but already I knew I was over-
matched. This magic sword had a ferocity beyond any-
thing I had encountered before and showed no sign of
tiring. One thing I had to say for Magician Yang: his spells
were not anemic ones! I had to get away from this thing!

I tried, but it pursued me relentlessly. It wanted my
blood, all my blood, and nothing but my blood. It whistled
at my left side before I could get my own blade around;

I lifted my left arm and it took the cut.

There was a clang, and the black sword bounced back,
shaken. Of course—my left arm, too, remained stone.
For the first time, I had occasion to bless the failure of
my talent to tackle this detail; it was evident that the evil
blade could not slice stone. One hears stories about swords
that can do this, but I think this is merely more hype;

stone is awfully tough stuff. This was pure barbarian luck:

the lingering trace of the last evil spell was helping me
fight this one.

The black sword shook itself as if confused, then
charged back to the fray. It swept at my neck with a
ferocity that threatened not only to sever my head from
my body but send it flying to the moon. That would have
been awkward for me; it is no easy thing to grow a whole
new head. I blocked the swipe, barely. Then the sword
dropped down again to my feet, and this time I didn't
move them, so it clanged again against the stone.

My luck was holding—but I really needed the magic
shield, because the black sword was not letting up and
was getting more imaginative about spots to attack. I was
tiring from this frenetic activity, and that sword wasn't.
Sooner or later it would find or force an opening and get
me in a vital spot.

"The spell!" I cried to Threnody. "Get the spell!"

"What spell?" she asked.

Oops—she didn't know about that complication, and
might not care to help me if she did. After all, if I died,
she was free to go home, and she could be long on the
way before I recovered. On the other hand, she could not
safely travel alone, so she might have to help me. What

Crewel Lye                    195

choice did I have? I ducked as the black sword whistled
over my head. "Any spell! Pook has them!"

Threnody hesitated. I knew she was considering
whether it was better to help me or let the black sword
take me out. But Pook snorted warningly at her, and she
decided to help. She went to him and opened the bag of
spells he carried.

Meanwhile, the enemy blade pressed me harder than
ever. It wove a perplexing pattern in the air and dazzled
my eyes, so that it was increasingly more difficult to parry
its sudden lunges. It looped around me, forcing me to turn
constantly to protect my flank and rear. I was getting
dizzy—and that, too, could be disastrous. I had to have
some kind of cover for my back, or I would shortly be
wiped out!

I spied the dead artis-tree, with its architecturally shaped
hole in the trunk. That would do! I fended off the sword
and retreated toward the tree. Soon I managed to wedge
my back against it and nudge into the hole. The space
was just my height, so was very convenient. The black
sword could no longer attack me from behind.

The thing was furious. It chopped at the trunk of the
tree, but the deadwood was hard as well as beautiful, and
only small chips flew. This protection would last me for
a good long time. I was careful not to back all the way
into the hole, for that would restrict my motions and work
to my disadvantage. 1 used the tree just enough to max-
imize my efficiency. Now I was holding my own, resting
as the enemy sword wasted its energy on the wood.

All this had taken very little time, the seconds seeming
like minutes, while Threnody was fetching the spell. It's
hard to describe two separate actions at once, so I'm
doing it one at a time, but they were happening together.
Now Threnody drew out one of the white objects Magi-
cian Yin had given me. "Is this the right one?" she called.
"It's a bit of vine with an eyeball tied in. Gruesome thing!"

The eye-queue spell—which had already been ex-
pended. So I was sure this one stood for some other
spell—maybe the magic shield I needed. "It will do!" I
called back. "Throw it here!" And another spark flew as

196

Crewel Lye

blade met blade. It was a good thing my own sword was
a sturdy one, albeit battered; now it had many nicks to
go with its dents.

She came toward me, then threw the spell, in the under-
handed female way. Her aim was good, however; the spell
struck the tree and dropped directly before me. The black
sword, sensing danger, sliced at the spell. "Invoke!" I
cried.

I saw it glow, just before the black sword struck it.
Then the strangest thing happened.

My consciousness seemed to leave my body and fly
ghostlike through the air. Had I been abruptly slain by an
unseen strike of the evil blade? Was my soul now flying
to wherever it was fated to go? But this had never hap-
pened before when I died!

Then my awareness approached Threnody as she stood
between me and Pook, prettily concerned. Suddenly it
dived into her body and settled there.

I heard a hoarse scream. I saw myself drop my sword
and hunch back into the dead tree. Immediately the enemy
sword lunged, running its blade through my unprotected
heart. My blood spouted from my chest as I fell forward,
dead.

But the black sword was not finished. It lifted itself
high, then struck down on my exposed neck, cutting off
my head. The head rolled a few paces away and came to
rest in a hollow, staring up with a slightly bemused expres-
sion.

Still the evil sword did not desist. It hacked at my right
arm, cutting it off, then started on my left, up at the
shoulder where it remained flesh. The thing meant to dis-
member me entirely!

I ran toward it, unable to watch this destruction of my
body without acting.

Then I paused. How could I run toward it when I was
already dead and decapitated?

I realized that, though my body was dead, my con-
sciousness was not. It was now in Threnody's body. And
her consciousness—must be in mine. Presently uncon-
scious. For I had activated the spell of exchange. Well,

Crewel Lye                     197

of exchange-back; the one intended to counter Yang's
exchange spell. Since we hadn't been exchanged, we
couldn't be un-exchanged; the un-exchange constituted
an exchange in itself. I had brought upon myself the very
mischief I had hoped to avoid!

When we exchanged identities, Threnody had found
herself in my male body, fighting the deadly sword—and
she hadn't known how to defend herself. As with the
notion of assuming the form of a bird and trying to fly
without practice, she was unable to fight like a man simply
because she had a man's body. Womanlike, she had
screamed and cowered. Thus she had been instantly vul-
nerable, and the enemy weapon had seized its advantage
and gotten her. It didn't realize it had killed the wrong
person; how could it know?

Theoretically, I had a minute to reverse the spell before
it took full hold. But how? Only by finding the black
exchange spell could I do that—and then I would merely
exchange myself into a dead and dismembered body! Also,
that minute had already passed, as if time meant anything
now. What a picklement this was!

When would that terrible enemy sword stop? It seemed
determined to mince my entire body. I might have the
use of another body now, but I still couldn't stand idly
by and let it happen! Since my talent had been strained
by overuse recently, I wasn't sure how much more it
could take.

Or had my healing talent flown with my consciousness
to Threnody's body? If that were so, then my body—and
Threnody's consciousness—was dead, and I was stuck
forever in her body. Would Yin be after me to marry him?

Thinking of it that way, I felt greater sympathy for
Threnody's resistance to the idea of being taken to Castle
Roogna for marriage.

No, I had to assume that our talents remained with our
bodies, so that it was possible for my body to revive and
take me back. I had to stop that sword from doing more
damage!

Well, maybe I could bluff it. I resumed my run to it,
leaned down, and grabbed the hilt. The sword paused in

198 Crewel Lye

surprise. "Well done, excellent sword!" I cried in Thren-
ody's voice. "You have acted courageously and saved me
from a fate worse than death! Now you can rest."

The sword hesitated, then decided to accept this. I
smiled winningly at it, knowing the power of a lovely
female expression over masculine things. Threnody her-
self had used it on me, and I had been hard put to it to
resist.

But I wasn't sure how long I could fool this dread
instrument. If and when it caught on to my real identity,
it would attack this body and dismember it, too, and then
I would be truly finished. I had to put the evil weapon
out of commission before it did catch on. But how?

By using Threnody's talent, of course! When she went
diffuse, so did her clothing; otherwise she would have
been naked when I caught her, and I was sure I would
have remembered a thing like that. She had been clothed
in her gray dress, which I now wore, which meant that
things closely associated with her shared the effect. So I
could go diffuse, and do the same to the sword I held,
and—

And when I let it go, it might return to its original state
and come after me with a deadly gleam on its surface.
Better not to risk that. Going far away from it was not
the answer, either; it could fly, and the other spells had
shown dismaying longevity. It would catch me in time.

Well, what else could I do with it? Whatever it was, I
didn't want to wait long—because until I nullified the
sword, I couldn't do anything for my dead body. It both-
ered me, seeing that severed head staring up. Suppose a
predatory animal came to gobble it down?

Ha—my elevated intelligence remained; in fact, it
seemed a little enhanced, because there was no dirt in
Threnody's brain to mess it up. Or was I using her brain?
I surely wasn't using my own! Whatever, my thought was
this: diffuse the sword, then put it into something that
would hold it in place when it solidified.

Of course, first I had to see if Threnody's talent would
work for me. I had never had a talent like hers before and
I wasn't sure how to invoke it. Should I just will myself

Crewel lye                     199

thin, or smoky, or what? Was there some key phrase to
utter? Well, my own talent of healing didn't need any
special attention; it merely operated at need. Maybe this
did, too. So I would concentrate on being smoky, and see
what happened.

"Let's take a nice little walk," I said to the black sword,
still holding it in my delicate hand. It was surely too heavy
for this slender arm to support for long, but it was self-
sustaining and felt quite light. Maybe that was another
masculine trait. I had to admit it was a handsome weapon,
and there were no nicks in its blade. It was therefore
superior to mine. But it was not mine, and I couldn't trust
it. Especially not when my own body revived.

I wondered where this instrument had come from orig-
inally; surely Magician Yang had not forged it himself.
He must have obtained the sword, then enchanted it. The
same would be true of his other spells, and those of Yin.
It was remarkable that the twin brothers had such similar
talents; I had heard of twins before who had quite dissim-
ilar talents.

I turned—and there was Pook. His ears were flat back,
his teeth bared, his nostrils dilated, and his eyes were
rimmed by white. His whole body was tense, and his
chains rattled warningly. This was one hyper-nervous
horse!

I realized what was wrong. He thought I was Threnody
and that I had now armed myself with the terrible evil
•sword! "Pook!" I cried. "Let me explain!"

But then I realized that the sword was listening too. If
I told Pook who I was, and convinced him, the sword
would also know, and that would be disaster. Threnody's
slender arms did not have the strength to hold this thing
if it got violent. Maybe my own arms would not have been
strong enough. It was one wicked weapon!

How could I let Pook know without giving myself away
to the dread sword? Fortunately, the residual eye-queue
spell enabled me to think of a way. Or maybe it was
Threnody's brain, which was a good one.

"Stand aside, animal," I said to him. "This fine sword
will strike down any creature who seeks to convey me to

200 Crewel Lye

Castle Roogna. It is quiescent now only because I am
free. You saw what it did to that ilk." I glanced back at
my horrendously hacked body.

Pook's ears went even flatter back. In a moment he
would attack me, overcome by grief and rage. He was an
animal, but he was loyal, and I was indeed proud to have
him as my friend.

"Whom do you suppose you are facing, animal?" I
demanded, looking him directly in a dilated eye. I held
the black sword in my right hand, near my body; slowly
I winked my left eye, which was out of sight of the sword.

The ghost horse blinked, startled, but his menace did
not abate. He knew what a liar Threnody was.

"Remember the nature of the spells you carry," I said.
I had described them to him in the course of our journey
to Threnody's house, since they might affect his welfare
as well as mine. "Remember which have been invoked
and which have not." That was as close as I dared hint,
for the sword might know about the other spells, too, and
I didn't know how smart it was. I dared not tell it too
much.

Still Pook did not react; the hint had not been enough.
I had mentioned the various types of spells to him, but
maybe he had forgotten the exchange spell. Indeed, who
would have believed how it had acted on this occasion?

"Remember your past experiences," I continued. "How
you were herded into the firewall by this dead ilk behind
me, who only wanted a free ride. How he cruelly rode
you into the territory of the goblins and the lair of the
callicantzari." Again I winked, and again Pook blinked.
Threnody had not been with us then, and I had not told
her; Pook had been with us and would have known if I
had gone into that with her. But now he was mystified,
not certain.

"And the elves," I said. "Remember how he dallied
three days with Bluebell, deserting you! What do you owe
him? And think of the stork, the dragons, and the baby
ogre; that barbarian made you wander allover Xanth, and
for what?" I fixed his eye again. "What was there ever
between you and this man? Whatever it was, let it remain

Crewel Lye                     201

unchanged." I paused, knowing he knew the answer—
friendship.

A third time I winked, covertly. "Whom do you sup-
pose you are facing, friend?"

Slowly Pook's ears relaxed, and the white circles around
his eyes disappeared. Now at last he had caught on. He
would go along with what I planned, as he had done be-
fore.

"I have an errand elsewhere," I said briskly. I glanced
back at my body. "You know what to do with this corpse,
to whom you owe nothing. Now stand aside."

Pook moved aside. I walked on by him, the sword
extended before me. I passed on through the grove of
artis-trees, admiring each. Barbarians don't have much
culture, but maybe Threnody's royal tastes were rubbing
off on me, for each tree seemed to be a marvel of indi-
vidual expression and form. No two were alike in color
or structure or size, but each was a masterpiece of its
type. Xanth could use more artis-trees!

While I walked, I concentrated on becoming less dense.
It didn't seem to be working, but since it was my only
hope, I had to keep trying. A shift of form or size or
density took an hour, she had said, so I would try for an
hour—or whatever it took.

And as I walked, concentrated, and hoped, I was aware
of the nature of this body. It differed from mine. The
proportions were funny; the legs seemed sort of short and
fat in the thigh; the arms were short and so low on muscle
as to seem like pipestems. The center of weight was lower,
and the balance was strange, seeming bottom-heavy. With
my free left hand I felt about, verifying that there was an
unseemly volume of posterior, and the chest—it seemed
unnatural, having all that flesh on my chest. It bounced
when I walked too fast. In fact, I had extra flesh distrib-
uted all over; I felt ungainly.

There were other problems. My black hair flopped about
my shoulders and tended to fall forward to obscure my
vision if I didn't keep my chin up. There was something
about the way I walked; my hipbones were set too far
out, or something, so that my whole pelvis gyrated awk-

202

Crewel Lye

wardly when I took full-sized steps. The only way I could
control it was to confine myself to mincing little steps that
slowed forward progress.

Ah, well, doubtless it was worthwhile to have the op-
portunity to appreciate first-hand the liabilities of the fe-
male form. No wonder women tended to be jealous of

men!

In the course of half an hour, to my immense relief, I
verified that Threnody's talent was working; I was defi-
nitely lighter, and the resistance of the air seemed greater.
Now I needed to find a suitable place to stash the sword.

In a tree? No, it might cut its way free. In a deep hole?
No, someone might dig it out too soon. It had to be per-
manently bound.

Then I spied a sitting boulder at the edge of the artis-
tree community. The rock was about half as tall as a man,
and massive; it seemed to be solid marble.

1 continued to walk until the transformation was com-
plete, and the sword and I were as diffuse as fog, or more
so, I kicked at a tree trunk, and my small foot passed
through it with hardly perceptible resistance. I was ready!

I marched up to the rock, lifted the sword in both
hands, shifted my grip so that it pointed straight down,
and plunged it into the boulder. It sank in to the hilt. I
removed my hands, stood back, and contemplated it with
satisfaction. "Stay there, dread blade!" I said.

I shouldn't have said that. The sword heard me and
evidently realized that something was amiss. It began to
lift itself out of the boulder.

Quickly I grabbed the hilt and shoved the sword back.
"Relax, relax!" 1 cried. "You have done so well, honored
blade; now you must rest. You can't be a gay blade all
the time." I batted my lovely eyelids at it.

The sword relaxed. But I didn't dare risk letting it go
again, for if it pulled out of the boulder and flew away, I
would never catch it. So I held on, soothing it with my
gentle feminine touch—that, too, I had learned about
when Threnody kissed me and held me the night before,
despite the lie that touch implied—keeping it in place
while we slowly solidified.

Crewel Lye                     203

But it had some suspicion and started to wiggle; I was
afraid of its brute force, so I pacified it by singing to it.
My voice was lovely and sad; I didn't know the proper
tune or words, so I just sang la-la-la with enormous feel-
ing, and as long as I did that, the weapon was quiescent.
No wonder women practiced subversive wiles on men;

what else was effective?

I stood and sang for the full hour it took to restore
body and sword to full solidity. Then at last I let go of
the weapon—and it was embedded firmly in the boulder.
Good enough! That blade would bother me no more.

I left the sword in the stone behind, retreating cau-
tiously, watching to be quite certain that dread weapon
did not abruptly free itself and resume its mischief. It
remained in place. I wondered whether someday, in some
other land, that blade on the boulder would turn up in
some significant spot, and someone would leam how to—
no, ridiculous! What use was a sword in a stone? No one
in Xanth would fool around with anything like that.

I started back toward the site of my body's de-
mise ... and a shadow descended. Oops—that looked very
much like a—in fact, it was a—

1 reached for my sword, and of course my delicate
hand slapped only soft flesh. The sword I had carried was
in the stone; my own blade was with my body. I was
unarmed.

The creature glided to a landing before me. It was a
fair-sized griffin, a female, for her color was shoe-polish
brown. In virtually every species of living creature, it is
the male who is the creature of splendors with the bright-
est colors, the biggest muscles, the best proportions. There
is one exception—the human species; there the female
seems to have most of the splendors. I have never been
certain what went wrong. Maybe some long-ago curse
was put on man and on man-related creatures. Also, the
females of other species are good hunters and fighters,
while those of ours are not. In this more-decorative-than-
functional body, I was suddenly aware of my extreme
vulnerability. This griffiness was well equipped with beak
and claws, while I—

204 Crewel Lye

It was too late to hide; the griffiness had landed because
she had spied easy prey. I could not fight, I had neither
sword nor muscle to wield it. I could not change form;

that took too long. More than ever now, I appreciated
the position of human women. No wonder Threnody had
not wanted to travel home alone; she would have been
dead in hours. Predators that never showed their mugs
to me, knowing that armed barbarian warriors were not
to be trifled with, would freely stalk an unarmed woman.
What was I to do?

Well, Threnody had tried to use guile on me, and I had
used it on the black sword. Now that I was in her position,
it seemed like a natural course. I would have to trick this
predator somehow. What were griffins concerned about?

Aha! They were notoriously clean creatures, the op-
posite of harpies. Griffins spent hours preening their
feathers and stroking their fur and cleaning their claws.
They never fed on carrion, but always killed fresh. They
were like the rocs in that respect. No griffin or roc ever
died from food poisoning. They were good enough hunters
so that they could afford to be choosy.

I huffed myself up and issued a feeling groan. The
advancing griffiness paused, cocking her bird-head. She
had been approaching me slowly, knowing I could not
escape; griffins were more efficient than dragons and never
scrambled when they did not have to. When a dragon
made a kill, it was apt to be messy, with blood and gobbets
of flesh strewn across the landscape; when a griffin did
it, there was hardly even a scream. She was hesitating,
not from any nervousness, but to make quite sure there
was nothing here that might soil her feathers.

"Oooh, it's so horrible!" I lamented. "If only I'd known
those berries were contaminated!"

Griffins don't have visible ears; nevertheless, her head
perked up. Contamination?

"Now I've got the Green-Spotted Gut Rot in my giz-
zard and I'm filling up with purple pus. Please slay me
before I rupture!" I staggered directly toward her.

The griffiness backed off—but not too far. She had a
keen eye for flesh, and mine did not look spoiled. In fact,

Crewel Lye                     205

I was about as delectable a sample of female anatomy as
could be found in Xanth, surely tasty in every portion.
Had I had more time to prepare, I could have smeared
green juiceberries on my tender skin, staining it impres-
sively. That was the problem with extemporaneous ef-
forts; the verisimilitude suffers.

But I improvised, discovering the genius of despera-
tion. "Would you believe," I pleaded distraughtly, "that
I am actually a man? My innards have been so mixed up
that there's no telling what will squeeze out next! Look
at this!" I used my hands to cup my well-endowed bosom.
"My chest muscles are practically drooping off!"

The griffiness backed off another step, her beak curv-
ing uncertainly. I pursued her. "Oh, please—cut me open
and let out the gook before it geysers out on its own!" I
made as if to squeeze a breast.

The griffiness spun, spread her wings, and took off.
She didn't want any gook on her! Maybe she wasn't en-
tirely convinced, but she preferred not to take the chance.

I relaxed. That had been a close call! Surely no genuine
woman would have used that particular ruse—and per-
haps the griffiness had known that. I wondered how
Threnody had managed to survive alone in her cabin so
long. A threat to jump into the—the—somewhere to her
death would not stop an animal predator. But I knew the
answer—by guile and poison. She had dealt with me as
she had handled any other threat, and I could no longer
blame her. I would do the same in her place, wearing her
body.

She had told me she was a liar—and she was; but of
course, a weak creature with tasty flesh could not afford
the fighting integrity of an armed barbarian warrior.
Understanding this, could I fail to understand also her
desire to avoid Castle Roogna and marriage to a Magician
whose only real interest in her was to shore up his standing
as King? If I were in her place—and it seemed I was, for
the time being—I'd rather go with a man whose interest
was in my—in her body. At least that was honest.

But I had more immediate concerns. I hurried back to




206 Crewel Lye Crewel Lye 207

my own body. Over two hours had passed; anything could
have happened!

Fortunately, it hadn't. Pook had gathered the remains
together in another leaf bag and this time had managed
not to include too much dirt. If any monsters had threat-
ened, the ghost horse had stood them off.

"I got rid of the sword," I said. "But now we have a
problem, friend. I'm in the wrong body."

Pook nodded, having figured that out for himself.

"I really can't do much in this body," I said. "It's weak
and misshapen for barbaric purposes, and—" I shrugged.
"I just prefer my own."

The ghost horse nodded again. He never had thought
much of Threnody's body.

"Of course, it could have been worse," I said. "If you
had been standing closer to me than she was, I would
have switched identities with you."

Pook snorted, revolted by the notion. I laughed, though
I can't say I was totally thrilled by his reaction.

I checked my own body. It was beginning to heal. Pook
had rolled the head against the neck and the arms against
the shoulders; these had reattached, and most of the spilled
blood had soaked back in. My eyes were no longer staring;

the lids had closed in halfway normal sleep. My body
would be all right in a few more hours; decapitations
weren't so bad when the head was not lost. If I had had
to grow a new one, I'm not sure how my memories would
have fared, as they are packed mainly in the head. Look-
ing at my body this way, seeing it undergoing the process
of healing, I really appreciated my talent. Never before
had I stood there and watched it from another body.

But the afternoon was passing, and we needed a secure
place for the night. "There are griffins in this region—
and probably worse when it's dark," I said. "If I had my
body, I could handle it; but in this poor thing, I'm in
trouble." I glanced down at my present form. Oh, it was
an excellent-looking form, but at the moment I didn't want
to look at it, I wanted to use it.

Pook nodded again. Evidently he had sniffed monsters
in the area.

"Of course, you can survive better alone," I said.
"We're a burden to you, especially in this condition. So
maybe you should go your own way now."

Pook stamped a forefoot in negation. He would not
desert me in this hour of desperation. I was so grateful I
almost cried, being caught unaware by the reactions of
this body. I stopped myself just in time and gave him a
maidenly hug of gratitude instead. He tolerated this sto-
ically.

"Well, I've got to protect myself until I can change
back," I said. "Maybe I can climb a tree and—" But I
looked at my unconscious body and at my present thin
arms, and I knew I could never get us both into a tree.
My barbarian body was simply too massive for my fem-
inine body to lift. That was a confounded inconvenience;

why did barbarians have to be so big?

"Maybe I could take this sword and—" But again I
knew it was useless; these slender arms could never wield
that great blade effectively.

I uttered an unladylike syllable of frustration. My pres-
ent mouth almost choked on such a gross word. Threnody
might have been quite ready to kill a man in defense of
her interests, but she was not a foul talker. So I grabbed
a hank of my black hair and yanked on it, venting my
displeasure. All my avenues seemed blocked!

Then I spied the hole in the dead artis-tree. "I can drag
my body into that," I said. "And squeeze in myself. And
you can stand guard outside. That should get us through
the night. In the morning, my body should be mobile, and
you can carry it to some safer place."

Pook nodded agreement. I gripped my body by the
shoulders and hauled. It was a real effort, but I managed
to heave it a little. I reminded myself that Threnody had
managed to drag me to the brink of the—1 couldn't re-
member where, but surely she had dragged me, so I should
be able to do it, too, in her body. I braced again, hauled
again, and moved it some more. Soon I was panting, my
bosom heaving prettily, but I got my body to the tree.

When I peered into the arched hole, I saw something
I hadn't noticed before: there was a stairway in there!




208

Crewel Lye

The steps led down into darkness beneath the ground.
This wasn't a hole in a tree, it was an entrance to—

To what? I gazed, pondering. Steps usually meant peo-
ple or some roughly similar species. They were small
steps, but there was clearance for human height. Was it
wise to go down there?

Pook looked around nervously, sniffing the air and
rotating his ears to catch some sound that was beyond
my perception. Whatever designed human beings really
messed up on the ears; not only were ours less efficient
than those of most animals, they weren't nearly as pretty.
Pook's ears, for example, were superior to mine in just
about any respect you'd care to consider.

"Something dangerous?" I asked, and he nodded af-
firmatively.

"Something we can't stand off?" Again the nod.

"Like a dragon?" Yes.

"Then we have no choice," I concluded. "You range
free, maybe leading it away—that's your specialty!—and
I'll haul the two of us down the stairs." It was obvious
that Pook wouldn't fit in the nether passage.

I took another hold on my body, then paused. "Uh,
Pook, in case this doesn't work out—"

But I couldn't finish the sentence, so I just gave him
another maidenly hug about the neck and a sweet-lipped
kiss on the ear and dropped only one or two tears on his
hide. Then I hauled my lunky, unconscious body on into
the hole and down the stairs, headfirst.

Going down was easier, because gravity helped. Grav-
ity can be very useful magic sometimes. I paused to look
back and saw Pook's silhouette above; then we rounded
the curve, and the parting was complete.

Chapter 12. Gnobody Gnomes

S felt halfway naked without Pook, and it was
much worse to feel naked in this body than in my own.
I reminded myself firmly that Pook really was better off
free in the forest, where he could outrun any threat. With
luck, we would find the subterranean region empty and
be able to rest and recover in private safety. Of course,
there might be a problem about food, but we could emerge
to forage in the morning. Without luck—well, what choice
did we have? That evil spell-sword had really cut down
our options. I had managed to use the wrong white spell
to salvage something, at least.

I reached the foot of the stairway. Now we were in a
rough passage that wound among the descending roots of
the artis-trees. The roots were aesthetically shaped and
arranged, just as were the branches above, and it was in
consequence a rather scenic passage, nicely contoured,
though it was formed of packed dirt.

Where should we go from here? If anything used this
stair these days, I wanted to be clear of it. I had not
noticed any cobwebs as I descended with my body, and
that suggested that the stairs had been recently used.
Maybe there was a room along the passage where my
body could be hidden.

I left that body for a moment and explored. Yes, there
were occasional chambers opening from the passage. They
were just rounded places that perhaps had once been used
to store things. I went back and resumed the haul on my
body. What an awful job it was!

Then I became aware of another presence. It was
gloomy here, and getting more so as the day waned above,

209

210

Crewel Lye

reducing the light leaking down the stairway. But now
there was yellower light at the far end of the passage.
Someone was coming!

I tried to haul my inert body the rest of the way to the
chamber, but I was tired and the body seemed heavier
than ever, and there wasn't enough time. The light of a
lantern rounded a corner and paused.

"What have we here?" a gruff voice growled.

Oh, no! I recognized that quality of speech. This was
a gnome! The gnomes lived underground, and their
profession was mining; they tunneled endlessly, ferreting
out pretty stones, and they weren't partial to intruders.
Sometimes they ate visitors; sometimes they did worse
things. Especially to attractive young women. For some
obscure reason, I was now far more acutely conscious of
the problems of young women than I had been before.
Gnomes weren't as bad as goblins, being slightly more
civilized—yes, even I, a proud but ignorant barbarian,
could appreciate some aspects of civilization!—but they
were bad enough. Some idiots thought of gnomes as in-
nocent little men, like the elves; I knew better. I didn't
like this at all.

"My—my friend and I—he's injured and must have
shelter," I said, hoping to rouse some element of sym-
pathy in the gnome. It was a faint hope, but all I could
muster at the moment.

It was promptly dashed. "You are intruders!" the gnome
growled. I saw that he carried a wicked-looking pick in
his other hand, the kind that could pry stone from bed-
rock. "I, Gnasty Gnomad of the Gnobody Gnomes, shall
deal with you forthrightly!" Gnomes were very forthright
folk; that was part of their problem. He lifted his deadly

pick.

Had I been in my own body, with my trusty sword, I
should hardly have been concerned. Gnasty stood only a
third my normal height, was short-legged and short-armed,
and the pick was relatively clumsy compared with the
sword, however devastating it was against unarmed folk.
But I was not in my body, and my sword remained above-


Crewel Lye                  211

ground. I could not effectively oppose the gnome physi-
cally, shamed as I am to admit it.

So I scrambled cunningly once more. "Wait, good
gnome, sir!" I cried. "No need to kill us! We can be useful
to you! We—" Oh, what could I offer, that I was willing
to offer, in this body? Again the genius of desperation
struck. "We can sing!"

"I care nothing for human hilarity," Gnasty said, touch-
ing his squat, dark cap dourly. But he paused.

"No hilarity!" I said. "Sad, very sad! Listen!" And I
used Threnody's voice, as I had done to calm the black
sword, ululating fervently. It sounded as if something gross
had just expired.

Gnasty Gnomad considered. "Maybe so," he said,
grudgingly impressed. "Then follow me." He turned about
and tramped back down the passage.

I returned to the dragging of my body. "Oh, leave him!"
the gnome snapped. "We'll cut him up for broth."

"No!" I cried. "He can sing too; we're a duet! Much
better together!" I hoped that was true. My body's ability
at singing was nil, as song is not a barbarian thing, but if
Threnody animated it, her skill might compensate.

The gnome shrugged. "It better be true," he grumped.

I hauled, and somehow got my body moved along.
Fortunately, it wasn't far; down the passage was a cham-
ber hollowed from stone, with a ventilation shaft pene-
trating to the surface. It had a barred wooden door. When
I struggled in there with my burden, the gnome slammed
and locked the door.

"But we'll need food, water!" I cried. "In order to sing
well!"

"In due course, chattel," Gnasty said and marched off.

Well, for the moment we were secure. Too secure,
perhaps, since we were prisoners. But maybe that was
better than nothing.

I checked my body carefully. The healing continued
apace; the head and arm were now so firmly attached that
only faint scar lines showed where the severings had been.
What a marvelous talent I had!

Actually, Threnody had a marvelous talent, too. I felt

212                     Crewel Lye

I should use it to rescue us from this fix. I could change
into a snake and crawl out between the bars and up the
stairs and out—

But my body could not follow. And I didn't want to
leave it unattended. Suppose dimepedes or nickelpedes
showed up, or the Gnobody Gnomes, while I was absent?
So I just had to sit tight—at least until the healing was
far enough along.

I settled down beside my body and slept.

By morning, my body had healed enough to return to
consciousness, but still had some healing to do. I noticed
that the legs were flesh again; my talent had cleared up
that detail while it was at it. Good enough; I really didn't
need stone feet, or even feet of clay.

However, I now had the chore of explaining things to
Threnody, who had not been in a position to appreciate
much of what had happened recently. I had to get things
straight with her before the gnomes returned.

"Don't get excited," I murmured in my ear. It was a
dirty ear; I really should have cleaned my head more
often, especially after it had rolled in the dirt. "There has
been an exchange of consciousness."

My eyes widened. My left arm jerked up before my
face. My mouth opened.

"Don't scream!" I warned. "That's more trouble!"

She was smart enough to desist, but she took a while
to get settled. "My arm," she whispered, horrified. "It's
all big and hairy!"

"That's not all," I muttered. I explained the rest of it
in terse whispers, bringing us up to date. "So now you
must try to sing, using my voice," I concluded.

Once she accepted the reality of our exchange of bod-
ies, she adapted readily. She didn't like it any better than
I did, and had just as much trouble with the specialized
male anatomy as I had with the female anatomy, but she
was a clever and realistic woman. I realized that Magician
Yang must have expected me to be nearest Pook or some
other creature, perhaps a living tree, when the exchange
spell was activated. Surely he would not have wanted me
in the body of the woman he hoped to marry. Or did he

Crewel Lye                     213

hope to marry her? Maybe he would be satisfied to have
her dead, regardless of the attitude of the common folk
ofXanth. At any rate. Threnody and I were for the mo-
ment unified in objecting to the present situation.

"Gnomes are no good for us," she said. "They don't
like to go on the surface by day, so have to hunt at night;

they have spells to protect them from night creatures, or
maybe it's just their bright torches that scare the beasts
away. But they have an appetite for day-game, which they
seldom have opportunity to assuage—and we are day-
game." She looked down at my body, which was now
clothed in only the merest tatters of her brown dress. "If
I had known this was going to happen, I'd have let you
get new trousers! Can this hunk of flesh survive being
cooked and eaten?"

"I'm not sure," I said uncomfortably. "Swallowed whole
by a dragon, sure; but spread among several stomachs—
the more my body has to regenerate lost parts, the harder
it is. Maybe if the bones were piled together—I think it's
the bones that are the essence of me. But if they are kept
separate—thrown away in different dumps—I don't think
I'd be able to recover. I'm not like a worm, where each
part becomes a new creature."

"That's what I thought. So if I get eaten by gnomes in
this body, I'm done for—and my own body can't recover
from simple death. There's no chance there. We've just
got to avoid being eaten."

"I never much liked being eaten, anyway," I confessed.
"But how can we escape? Your body's a lot stronger

than mine, but yours is pretty weak right now." She smiled

with my brute, masculine face. "I'm in a position to know."
"After a recovery, my body needs a lot of food and

rest," I explained. "It will be a couple of days before it's

up to full snuff."

"And without a weapon or tool to fight with or pry us
out of here, even your full strength won't do much good,"
she said. "We'll have to depend on my talent. My body
can escape readily. But—"

"But mine can't," I finished for her. "And we need
both bodies, until we can get switched back."

214                    Crewel Lye

"I'm aware of the irony," she said, grimacing. "We've
got to stick together and protect each other from further
harm. But how can your body escape? Undoubtedly you,
as a barbarian, have had prior experience with this sort
of thing. Hairbreadth escapes and whatnot."

She gave me too much credit. Most of my life had been
spent peacefully growing up in Fen Village. That was why
I had had to go out on my own to fill my quota of ad-
venture. I had drowned once, gotten zonked by the stare
of a stray basilisk, and had my neck broken by a falling
branch, but these were mere boyhood experiences, the
kind any lad had. I had never been imprisoned and threat-
ened with getting cooked, before this journey to central

Xanth.

But I did know a way. "I could assume the form of a
creature with strong teeth or cutting claws. Then I could
cut you into chunks small enough to pass through these
bars, and carry the chunks to the surface, one at a time.
After that, I could put them together and wait for you to

reconstitute."

She grimaced. "There are a squintillion problems with
that! First, doesn't it hurt? And if you knocked me out
first, wouldn't there be a lot of lost blood when you cut?
And wouldn't it take so long—three hours—for you to
change in my body and do the job that the gnomes will
return and discover what we're up to? And if not, and
you carry the chunks to the surface, what's to prevent
some predator from consuming them up there, one at a
time, while you're down here fetching another? And if all
that can be overcome, how do you know your body will
recover after that bad treatment, so soon after being hacked
apart by the black sword? You hadn't recovered all the
way from the stone-spell before, and I still feel a little

stone in my toe."

I spread my small, pretty hands. "You're thinking bet-
ter than I am, I guess. You're right; it wouldn't work.
We can't escape on our own. But what else can we do?"

"I think you had the right idea before. We'll have to
sing our way out."

Crewel Lye

215

"But can you sing well in my voice? I was never good
at that sort of thing."

"Marvels can be done with harmony," she said. "It's
one thing your weakened body can probably do as well
as ever. Maybe we'd better practice."

"But the gnomes will hear!"

"And what if they do? They want us to sing, don't
they? I can't think why they want song, but we'd better
oblige them."

So we sang. Her body's voice was very good, even
without the accompaniment other lute, but I knew neither
words nor tune, so could only ululate in the fashion I had
done before. My body's voice was deep and rough, but
Threnody knew the songs. It seemed impossible at first,
but she knew what she was doing; that turned out to be
an improvement on my situation and an important part
of singing.

"I will teach you a song, so you can sing it properly,"
she said. "Then I will be the bass accompaniment. The
secret is harmony and counterpoint; the two voices will
complement each other and become more than they are
separately. Let me see." She pondered briefly. "Let's
start with a wordless one; you just learn the melody."

She made my voice sing the tune. As she got used to
it, she made my voice perform better than it ever had
sung before. It stopped barging about the basement and
started marching in more disciplined fashion at ground
level. I realized that my poor singing had been more a
matter of attitude than ability; even the worst voice could
sound halfway decent if properly managed. Then, with
her voice, I was able to pick up the theme on a higher
register and soon I could sing it. It was a sad but pretty
thing that seemed appropriate for mourning a close friend's
death or the tragedy of the human condition in general.

There was a tramping in the passage, and we broke
off. Gnasty arrived, followed by several other gnomes.
"See, Gnitwit," Gnasty said. "I told you they could sing."

Gnitwit gnodded. "So you did. But will the cowboys
listen?"




216                   Crewel Lye

"Why hot try it and see? What do you think, Gnone-

such?"

"Since the cowpokes infest our richest region," Gnone-
such said, "anything's worth a try. If it doesn't work, we
can always put them in the stew."

Gnitwit peered at me. "She looks delectable. Look at
that thigh! I get first dibs on that!"

"Gno you don't!" Gnasty snapped, as I hastily tugged
the hem of my skirt down to cover the exposed thigh. "I
found them; I get first pick from the stew."

"Let's fatten them up so we can all feast," Gnonesuch

suggested.

"Good gnotion!" Gnasty agreed.

They departed, and Threnody and I practiced some
more harmony. We had extra incentive now! While I sang
the tune I had learned, she used my voice to fill a deep
underpinning, a sort of strumming that was nothing in
itself but really sounded good when it lined up with what
I was singing. We were a team!

There was more action in the passage. This time, the
entrance was by gnomides, the gnome women, who were
rather pretty little things. I have already remarked on how
the human-related creatures seem to have better taste in
women than in men, at least as far as appearances go.
Structurally it's another matter, of course; legs that may
look and taste delectable don't run as fast as those with
muscles. I suppose there should be a reasonable compro-
mise between appearance and performance; but of course,
I was not the one to design the humanoid form.

The gnomides brought a pot of murky water and a
bundle of cooked roots. The roots tasted awful and were
threaded with undigestible strings, but we were both so
hungry that we ate them without protest. At least there
was plenty of the stuff, so that my body had the substance
it needed for healing completely and strengthening.

The gnomides departed, and we had more time to our-
selves. That's one thing prisoners have plenty of—time.
We practiced our song some more, perfecting it, then
rested. "The more you sleep, the faster my body will
recover," I told her.

Crewel Lye                     217

"I wonder whether you should practice changing form,"
she said. "We don't want the gnomes to know you can
do it, but if the opportunity arises for a change, you do
need to know how."

"I phased to smoke so I could bury the black sword
in a stone," I said. "I just willed it, and it happened."

"Yes, that's the way. If you concentrate harder, it
works faster, but you still can't do it in much under an
hour. You were very smart to deal with the sword that
way."

"I was desperate!" But I felt a feminine flush of pleas-
ure at the compliment.

"The problem is, you can do only one kind of change
at a time, and you have to complete that before you can
begin another. You can't change size halfway, then change
density halfway; the most you can do is change your mind
and resolidify before you're done. So it's really quite lim-
ited—which is one reason I did not try to escape captivity
till night.,My body is vulnerable while it's in the process
of change; it has to be undisturbed for things to work
right."

"I know how it is," I said. "My body can't heal properly
if it keeps getting messed up. But how does your body
know when halfway is? I mean, couldn't you be shrinking
to elf size, but stop at gnome size and decide-that's where
you were going anyway?"

My eyes widened in my handsome but smudged male
face. "I never thought of that!" she exclaimed. "I always
had an object in mind, like a mouse; first I'd change to
mouse size and be so dense I'd almost sink through the
ground. Then I'd diffuse back to normal density, at which
point I'd be the size and mass of an imp. Then I'd change
shape and be a complete mouse. I never was able to do
it any other way—but I suppose it's possible."

"Just as it turned out to be possible for my voice to
sing," I agreed. "What's this about super-density?"

"The mass of the body stays the same, unless that's
what's being changed," she explained. "When I reduce
my mass without changing size or form, I become ghost-
like; then if I reduce my size commensurately, I become

218 Crewel lye

normally solid again. The mass of a mouse distributed
through the volume of a woman is vaporous, but still
there; when the size becomes that of a mouse, all is well."

"That's interesting," I said, not very interested. "But
now you'd better sleep."

She agreed. My body settled back and in a moment
was snoring. That startled me. Oh, I knew I snored some-
times, but hadn't realized it was that loud and vulgar.
People at Fen Village had complained now and then, but
I had believed they were joking.

I wasn't sleepy myself; this body was not busy re-
covering from decapitation and dismemberment, so was
more alert. I decided to experiment cautiously with chang-
ing states. I had diffused before and returned to normality,
so I knew I could handle that. What about shape? No,
that would be too obvious, if the gnomes came back un-
expectedly. Size? Yes, maybe I could do something with
that. I would make myself larger—no, smaller, again to
escape notice if observed. And I would stop wherever 1
chose, then decide what to do next. I wanted to know the
limits of Threnody's talent. Our lives might depend on it.

I shrank for about a quarter of an hour, then checked
the mark I had made on the wall. Yes, I was about three-
quarters of my prior height. In an hour I could reduce
to—to what,.zero size? Microscopic? A microscope was
a magic instrument used to see things too small to see; I
could appear under that instrument and do a pantomime
act, astonishing the Magician watching! Except that any
larger creature could eat me; that thought changed my
mind quickly.

I was denser; there was a different feel to my body,
not comfortable. I was breathing more rapidly, as if my
lungs were not taking in enough air. This made sense;

they had to support the same mass, but they were smaller,
so they had to work harder. How could Threnody have
diminished to mouse size without suffocating? She must
have diffused first, then shrunk, so she could breathe. I
was also having a little trouble with my balance, because
I was closer to the ground and had less time to correct
my stance, as well as being overmassed for this size. I

Crewel Lye                     219

realized that even if density were kept constant, a person
would not want to be the size of a mouse, for it would
be hard to balance on two feet. The imps, of course, were
used to it, and maybe had magic to keep them steady;

but if I were the size of a mouse, I'd better also assume
the form of a mouse. It was amazing how complex a
simple thing like size-change became; no wonder Thren-
ody hadn't been eager to launch into it. Now I decided
to diffuse back to normal density so I wouldn't have to
pant. Already I could see the limits of these changes. If
I diffused too much, wind could blow me away or even
apart; while if I became too solid,! could sink into the
ground.

But wait—I wanted to find out whether I could stop
here and do something else, or alternate one form of change
with another. Threnody thought I couldn't—but again I
reminded myself that I had thought I couldn't sing. I had
shrunk some; better try diffusing.

I concentrated on diffusion, and in fifteen minutes I
was breathing easier. So far so good; I had done a change
in half an hour instead of two hours. What next?

Well, could this body change part of itself and not the
rest? Threnody had been so sure of its limits—maybe she
hadn't even tried new things.

I concentrated on my left hand, willing it to become a
crab's pincer. I ignored the rest of the body, working on
just that one thing.

And it worked! In just a few minutes that hand was a
big green pincer. I tried it on my skin, but it wasn't a
strong pincer; it had the form but not the power. No, this
was not an easy way to convert the body into a natural
weapon. Not without more time and practice. Still, this
represented a breakthrough. Threnody's body had more
talent than she had known. Because the focus of change
was now narrow, it was relatively swift; she had required
an hour per change because she insisted on doing the
whole body, all the way. She had been limited in her
thinking, and therefore in her talent.

But I'd better get back to normal, lest I be discovered.
I tried to change size and claw simultaneously, but found

220 Crewel Lye

I could not; it had to be one or the other. Very well, claw
first, then size.

It was easy. I changed the claw halfway to the hand,
then switched to size-changing, switched again to density
to catch up on my missing mass, and returned to finish
the hand. I could only do one type of change at a time,
but I could do whatever change I wanted, to whatever
extent. I had, in effect, rendered Threnody's talent far
more versatile.

Was that true for all people? I wondered. Could every
person do much more than he believed, if he changed his
belief? To what extent were all of us needlessly limited?
The Mundanes refused to believe in magic and therefore
could not practice it; there was a horrendous example!

But barbarians aren't much for philosophy. Maybe they
could be, if they thought they could be? I got myself back
to normal, then settled down and snoozed in and out.
Threnody slept more solidly for several hours, waking
when the gnomides brought more food. This time Gnasty
was with them. "Prepare yourselves, chattel," he said
gruffly. "Soon you will sing for the cowboys." He spun
about and tramped off.

"Who or what are these cowboys?" I asked.

One of the gnomides glanced around to be sure Gnasty
was out of hearing range. "They are bullheaded folk," she
said.

"Well, so is Gnasty," I said.

She smiled, becoming more at ease. "No, you mis-
understand, human woman. They—" She shrugged, at a
loss to provide more detail.

"My name is—" I hesitated, but realized I had to go
with my present body, lest there be considerable com-
. plications of understanding. "Threnody."

"Threnody," she repeated. "And I am Gnifty Gnom-
ide."

"Gnice to know you, Gnifty," I said in my most fem-
inine manner, while Threnody kept silent. And actually
it was nice, for these gnomides were of quite a different
personality from the gnomes. It served as a reminder that
a person can not be said to know a species unless he




Crewel Lye                     221

knows both sexes of it. "What do I misunderstand about
the cowboys? Do they herd cows or something?" Cows
were mythical Mundane animals.

A titter rippled through the gnomides. "Of course not!"
Gnifty said. "They are—their heads are—" She cast about
for a better term, but found none. "Bulls," she finished.

"You mean their bodies are—like ours—but their
heads—?"

"Yes!" she exclaimed, pleased at this success of com-
munication. "They graze—"

"Graze?"

"On the moss of the rocks, where our men mine. And
they get—they have horns—"

It was coming clear at last. "When the gnomes try to
work, the cowboys want to graze, so they get ornery and
interfere."

"Yes. And they are too big and strong to oppose, so
we can't mine. But they're not aggressive, usually, and
they like music—only we aren't good at music."

"Well, we'll sing for you," I said generously. "But
suppose it doesn't work?"

"Oh, we don't like to think of that!" Gnifty said.

But an older gnomide, hardened to tougher stuff, man-
aged to come up with the thought. "The pot."

"She's Gnaughty," Gnifty confided, embarrassed. "And
she's Gnymph." She indicated the youngest gnomide, who
was too shy to speak at all. As with human women, their
shyness was inversely proportional to their age.

I knew better than to ask these little women to release
us. They didn't have the key and they wouldn't dare defy
their gruff men. As it was, they shied away from Thren-
ody's side of the cell, afraid of the big, brute, male body
despite the gate separating us. They took me for a woman,
so were friendly with me. All women, I realized, shared
a bond of awe and subservience, because of the roughness
of men. How odd that I had never noticed this before
assuming female aspect myself.

"Well, thank you so much for the food," I said. "My
friend Jordan, there, has a big appetite. He was hurt;

222 Crewel Lye

that's why we came down here. We couldn't stay up there
at night—not with all those monsters."

The gnomides shuddered. They were afraid of mon-
sters too. That was why their kind lived safely under-
ground.

"But why don't small monsters come in that open door
in the tree?" I asked. "We came right down the stairs;

we didn't know there were people here."

"There's an aversion spell on it," Gnifty explained.
"Only our own kind can enter, or someone in such dire
need that he overcomes the aversion."

"That was us," I said. "He was unconscious; I dragged
him down."

"Our men have aversion spells on their hats," Gnifty
continued. She was really quite talkative, now that the
ice had been broken. "So that no big monsters come near,
just creatures small enough to be hunted at night. When
a dragon is near, they cry, 'Hang onto your hat!'"

"That makes sense," I agreed with maidenly agree-
ment.

We finished eating, and the gnomides took away the
refuse. Then the gnomes returned. "Move out!" Gnasty
said as he unlocked the gate.

We were conducted to a deep region where the tunnels
branched out in all directions. Apparently these ones had
not been hollowed by the gnomes. They were larger and
older, and their walls were covered by furry growths. In
some sections, the walls had been chipped away by the
miners, where they had delved for precious stones. The
moss did not grow in the chipped sections. I could see
why those who grazed would be annoyed. To them, per-
fectly good food was being destroyed. When two cultures
interfaced, who was to say which one was right and which
wrong? They merely had different viewpoints.

When I thought of it, that term "interface" was inter-
esting. It derived from a spell in which the faces of two
creatures were locked together or combined so that they
interconnected. There had been a person whose talent
was interfacing; she could lock any two faces together,
however awkward it was for the participants. Later usage

Crewel Lye                     223

had been less specific, until now it meant the overlapping
of any two things, including cultures—as in this case. I
was fascinated by the way words came into the language;

too bad I wasn't civilized! Words have always been very
important to me, because we barbarians have only an oral
tradition; without words, we would have no culture at all.
Words have real power, and not just the magic ones. One
has only to listen to a harpy swear to know that!

The gnomes slowed, becoming nervous. "They're
near," Gnasty said. "I smell them. If only our aversion
spells worked on them!"

Sure enough, there was a whiff of barnyard odor. Then
we heard a kind of crunch, crunch—the sound of grazing
and chewing—and every so often the burp of a wad of
cud being brought up. Finally we came into a larger cav-
ern, and there were the cowboys: true bullheaded men
the size of my body.

They spied us. One snorted and pawed the floor of the
cave with a bare foot. He was unclothed, but fairly furry
all over so he didn't seem naked. He lowered his horns.
Gnasty clapped his hand to his hat and backed off. This
was really cowboy country.

"Sing!" Gnasty cried.

"Now look," I said reasonably. "Don't the cowboys
have as much right to this cave as you do? After all,
they're hungry, and this is where they graze."

"Gnitwit, go smoke up the pot," Gnasty said to his
companion.

"We'll sing!" I exclaimed. The gnomes had a truly
compelling argument! That was often the way of it, when
reason met fanaticism.

So we sang, my pretty melody and Threnody's deep,
resonating accompaniment. In this larger space it worked
well; the sound sort of spread out and mellowed, and
those bass notes reverberated while the high notes cut
straight through to the ear. It was a nice effect, if I do
say so myself.

And the cowboys responded. The aggressive bull un-
aggressed and returned to his grazing. Beyond him was

224                    Crewel Lye

a cowgirl, with a body not unlike the one I was using.
That one listened attentively, her ears cocked toward us.

"Move them down to the far side," Gnasty told us,
gruffly pleased. "We want to work here."

So Threnody and I slowly walked to the far side of the
cavern, and the cowfolk followed us, so as to be close to
the song. Behind us, the gnomes unlimbered their picks
and had at the wall, gouging out chunks of it, then using
their mallets to smash apart the chunks. When they had
reduced the rock to gravel, they sifted through it, search-
ing for gems. They didn't find many, but of course such
work is slow, as is anything worthwhile. I couldn't fault
the industrious gnomes, but I was sorry to see the natural
walls being torn down and the rubble accumulating. The
gnomes were more civilized than the cowfolk, so naturally
they had more destructive ways. Once the gnomes were
through with a section, no one would have any use for

it-
All we had was one song, but the cowfolk seemed

satisfied with it. The cowgirl gradually came closer to me,
avoiding Threnody, and I realized that she, like the gnom-
ides, felt more comfortable with her own sex. Once again,
the camaraderie of the gentle aspect prevailed.

I held out my hand to her, and she made so bold as to
sniff it, then shied away, alarmed by her own boldness.
These were basically shy folk, not looking for trouble;

the bulls simply stood their ground when they had to.
Maybe the aversion spell of the gnomes did work on the
cowboys, but they became desperate when defending their
diminishing pastures, so resisted it. My sympathy was
with them. I seemed to have a lot of female sympathy
now; maybe it derived from my present body, yet some-
how I doubted it was any carryover from Threnody's

personality.

But we were captives of the gnomes, and we didn't
know much about the cowfolk, and my body had not yet
recovered its full strength. We had to remain with the
gnomes until we saw our way clear to escape.

We sang until we began to hoarsen, which was bad for
pacifying cows, so we had to quit for the day. But the

Crenel Lye                     225

gnomes had done good mining during this period and were
well satisfied. The gnomides carried several small dia-
monds; evidently they were the guardians of such stones.

The gnomes returned us to our cell and fed us well. I
would have appreciated it more if I hadn't known they
wanted us fat for the pot, at such time as our usefulness
as singers ended. Once our effect on the cowboys dimin-
ished, or the gnomes completed their operations in cow-
folk caves, we would be in hot water.

There didn't seem to be any gnomes near our cell this
evening, but a barbarian never trusts appearances com-
pletely. They could have one of their number lurking in
a nearby cell, listening to make sure we didn't make any
secret escape plans. So I said nothing on this subject to
Threnody. But as darkness closed at the ventilation shaft,
I settled down next to her, put my face near hers—that
is, near mine—and murmured: "They're going to cook
us one of these days."

"Yes, we'll really go to pot," she agreed.

"So we must plan our escape. You'll be stronger to-
morrow, but it will take one more day for full strength.
Do you think we can wait that long?"

"I think so," she said. "That's a big cavern they're
mining, and maybe not the only one. But let's plan it
carefully now, just in case we have to try it tomorrow. I
think the cowfolk will let us pass through their home
passages—but we need to be sure there's a way to the
surface from there."

I was propped on one elbow, so as to address her ear.
My arm was getting uncomfortable, but I didn't want to
move away and have to talk louder. "Uh, may I lean
against you?" I asked.

"Sure," she said gruffly. "Here, put your head against
my shoulder, and I'll hold you in place."

So 1 rested my head in the crook of her shoulder and
neck, and she put her brawny arm around my body. One
big hand fell rather familiarly across my bosom. "Uh, your
hand—" I said.

"What?" She sounded annoyed. And she put both hands

226

Crewel Lye

Crewel Lye

227

on my shoulders, drew me in to my face, and kissed me

on the mouth.

I wrenched away, brought up my own hand, and slapped
her on the cheek, smartly. Then I scrambled out of her

grasp.

"What did you do that for?" she demanded angrily.
Even in the dark, I was aware of her big muscles tensing
and I was uncomfortably conscious of the disparity in the
powers of our bodies. She was not yet at full strength,
but she could pick me up and throw me across the cell if
she wanted to.

"You behave yourself, or I'll scream for the gnomes!"

I said tersely.

"But all I was doing—" she began in a baffled voice.
"All you were doing was responding to your strong
masculine passions! You think any available female is
yours to—to—" I could not continue, appalled at the

prospect.

"My masculine passions!" she retorted, outraged. Then
she laughed ruefully. "You know, it's true; I've never felt
stirrings like that before. I'm all—I—is that the way men
react to women?"

"To pretty ones," I said guardedly.

"I never realized before how it was with men! How do
you ever manage to control yourselves?"

"It isn't always easy," I admitted, grudgingly mollified.
"That night when you lay against me, and breathed—"

She laughed again. "I know! Now I understand exactly
how you felt. That dirt you said you have in your mind—
I think some of that rubbed off on me, because—well,
never mind. Oh, Jordan—you were a saint!"

"Saints are mythological Mundane creatures," I mut-
tered, further mollified. But this experience had unsettled
me, too; never before had I properly appreciated the wom-
an's position.

"I apologize," Threnody said. "I got carried away."

"I accept your apology," I said graciously. And so we
were reconciled. But we did not resume physical contact
and we did not discuss our plans for escape that night.
* * *

Next day was much like the first. We ate, rehearsed
another song, and sang it later for the cowfolk. This time
three cowgirls approached. One was young, really a calf-
child, with cute little horns. "Yooo nnize vvoook," she
mooed as we paused between songs. We had found we
didn't have to sing continuously; they would give us a
few minutes for silence if it was obvious there would soon
be more music.

I did a double take. Was she talking? It seemed so.
The bovine lips and tongue were not well adapted for
speech, but when I realized that the Z sound substituted
forthe S sound, and the V for the F, it made sense. "Thank
you," I murmured. "You nice folk, too."

"Nnize zoongz," she said, pleased.

"Nice songs," I agreed, glancing to make sure the
gnomes weren't paying attention. "Can all of you talk our
language?"

She shook her head no. "Oonee mmeee. Mmiii zaa-
lenz."

"Your talent," I agreed, understanding. I hadn't real-
ized that nonhuman folk had magic talents, but of course,
the cowfolk were mostly human. All except the heads.
So it made sense that they should have souls and magic.

This was a very interesting development. Could we
turn it to our advantage? We certainly needed an advan-
tage!

We sang another song, to preserve appearances. Then
I talked with the calfchild again. "What is your name?"
I asked.

"Mmooola," she replied richly. "Hwaaz yoorz?" She
had trouble with some consonants, but I could understand
her increasingly well as I became attuned.

"Threnody," I said, feeling a twinge of guilt for this
necessary deception. There was no way 1 could make
these folk understand my real situation; and if I could, it
would only frighten them away. I believe in good old-
fashioned barbarian integrity, but there are times when it
doesn't seem to apply.

"Zrennozee," she repeated carefully.

"You speak very well," I complimented her, and her




Crewel lye

228

nostrils dilated with appreciation. I leaned forward con-
fidentially. "Just between us girls—I have a secret."

Her beautiful bovine orbs brightened. All girls love
secrets! Her furry ears twitched. "Zeekrez?"

"Yes. We are captives of the Gnobody Gnomes. Will
you help us escape?"

Moola's nose wrinkled in perplexity. "Eezave?"

"Correct. Escape. The gnomes mean to cook us in a
big pot when they're through with our singing."

"Vvigg vozz?"

"A big, big pot," I agreed. "We must escape—tomor-
row. Will you help?"

The calf-brow creased and the ears twitched uncer-
tainly. "Mmuuz aazg," she lowed, glancing at the largest
bullhead, who was evidently in charge.

"Tomorrow," I repeated. Then we had to sing again,
for the herd was getting restless.                        (

That night we definitely had to make plans, so I trusted   [
my valuable and delicate feminine body close to the brute   "
hunk Threnody was using and discussed our escape. "I think
all we have to do is walk into the midst of the cowfolk," I
said. "The gnomes couldn't stop us. If Moola says it's okay."

"But can we trust them?" she asked with typically
masculine suspicion. "What do they eat, besides moss?"

"Their mouths aren't suited for meat-eating," I said.

"Or for talking?"

"That's just Moola's talent." But I wasn't entirely easy,
since I now inhabited what was surely a delectable car-
cass. "Anyway, what choice do we have? We don't want
to wait for the gnomes to light a fire under the pot."

The notion of that smoking fire and boiling pot seemed
to bother her as much as it did me. A pot is best left
unsmoked. "We'd better trust them," she agreed. "They
do seem like decent bovine folk."

"A better risk, anyway." I made ready to draw away,
but she held me close.

"I'm sorry I killed you," she said.

We had been through that before. "Are you getting
ready to make another pass at me?" I demanded, trying
vainly to free myself from her grip.

Crewel Lye

229

"Of course not," she said insincerely. Then she laughed
ruefully. "I never suspected what a difference a body
makes," she said. "I mean, I have assumed many forms
in the past, but always female."

"You could assume the male form, couldn't you?" I
asked. "Maybe I should try it."

"It wouldn't work. My talent is form-changing, not—
that. Maybe my body could look male, but inside, it would
always be female."

That seemed reasonable. Yet now, in our exchanged
bodies, she was assuming male attributes, and I female ones.
Form did make a difference! Still, I definitely thought of
myself as a male, and surely she remained female in out-
look. Some questions have no easy answers, and I suspect
the question of sexual outlook is about as uneasy as any.

We separated and slept. But perhaps we respected each
other more than we had before.

Next day was as before, until we came to the cowfolk's
cavern. About half the wall of it had been chipped away,
so that there was much less grazing than previously. We
sang the first song, and Moola approached. "Verzinanz
zayz ogaa," she reported contentedly.

"Ferdinand says okay," I relayed to Threnody.

"Then let's get the hell on our way," she said gruffly.
I don't know why males can't be more gracious about
accepting favors, and I wish they would watch their rough
language.

We got up and walked to the far end of the cave, where
the main herd of the cowfolk was.

"Hey!" Gnasty Gnomad shouted, brandishing his pick.
But two bullheads stood in the way, their horns lowered,
and he could do nothing. "And we had the pot ready to
smoke tonight!" he raged.

"Such a pity, creep," Threnody muttered without much
sympathy. Males can be quite callous at times.

Moola skipped along ahead of us, showing the way.
But neither of us escapees was completely sanguine about
where this was leading.




Chapter 13. ((nightmare

It led to a huge, barnlike cave, where motherly
cows nursed small baby calves, and old bullheads chewed
cud complacently. Standing in a Kingly stall was Ferdi-
nand, a huge and noble bull of a man. Moola conducted
us straight to him.

Moola had to translate, as we did not comprehend
bovine language. The King, however, appeared to under-
stand our speech well enough. Royal creatures do seem
to place a premium on education, and at times that really
helps.

"Greetings, your Majesty," Threnody said, making a
formal bow. It was evident that the males dominated this
herd, so she, as our apparent male, was expected to be
the important person. I stifled my annoyance at this rank
sexism for now; I'd give Threnody a piece of my mind
later. "We are deeply grateful for your timely assistance
in rescuing us from the gnomes."

The King mooed. Moola translated: "Zoze Mnovozzee
Mnomz arr aa vaane!"

"Those Gnobody Gnomes are a pain," I repeated qui-
etly for Threnody's benefit, as her masculine ear seemed
to be less attuned to nuances. No wonder she couldn't
sing as prettily as I could!

"They certainly are!" Threnody agreed. "They were
going to smoke us in a pot."

The bullheaded King mooed again, and Moola said:

"Nnoow yoo ghann zzingg vorr uz voreverr."

Oops! "Now you can sing—" I began, whispering.

"I heard!" Threnody snapped with insufferable mas-
culine crudity. She raised my voice for the King. "Your

230

Crewel Lye                     231

Majesty, we deeply appreciate what you have done for
us. But we have business elsewhere. Perhaps there is
some other service we can do for your good folk to show
our gratitude."

"Mooo?" the King asked, disappointed.

"We can not stay here," Threnody said firmly. "This
is no aspersion on your region or culture. It is just that
we have a prior commitment. I am a King's daugh—a
King's offspring, and the duties of my status—"

Regretfully, the King mooed again. He was not one to
argue against the honoring of duties of royal status.

"The only other thing we need is more pasture," Moola
translated in her fashion. I'm rendering it for the moment
in our normal mode, though of course it wasn't. Actually,
her accent was not bad, for a heifer, and I don't mean to
disparage it; I'm sure we sounded as odd to the bovines.
"But our deepest and best pastures are controlled by the
Knights, and already we pay a terrible rental for the use
of some of those caves."

"Nights?" Threnody asked. "They are very dark?"

"Knights," Moola said precisely, managing to convey
a hard K sound at the beginning of the term. "We are
bracketed above by the gnomes and below by the Knights.
The Gnobody Gnomes and the Knock-Kneed Knights."

The story, as it emerged, was that terrible armored
creatures called Knights allowed the cowfolk to graze in
some nether pastures, but required the sacrifice of the
finest bullocks and heifers each year. If the cowfolk re-
fused to send their tribute, the Knights would cut off the
pastures entirely. Now, with their upper pasture depleted
by the ravages of the gnomes, the bovines would not have
enough left to survive.

The annual ritual had started many years before, when
the Knights had moved into the caves and proved to be
too strong for the cowfolk. The invaders were from a far
place called Kon-Krete, where everything was very hard.
The bovines had tried to fight, but their horns were no
match for the pikes of the Knights, and they had been
driven relentlessly to the very fringe of their range, up
against the gnomes. The Knights could have exterminated




232 Crewel Lye

explained. "That would have taken an hour to complete.
the cowfolk entirely, but preferred to save them for en-
tertainment. So the tribute was not just for grazing; it was
for the very survival of the bovine community. But it was
a sporting thing, as the Knights liked sport. The sacrificial
cowfolk were given swords and sent into the dread lab-
yrinth to meet the Knight Tourney Champion. If they
could run that gantlet and defeat him in battle, the tribute
would be forgiven, and thereafter the bovines would be
permitted to graze free. That gave them a genuine incen-
tive to fight well—but so far none of them had prevailed,
even though the bull and heifer were permitted to tackle
the lone Knight together. The Knights' Champion had
been too strong.

"But how do you know they would keep their word,
if you ever won?" Threnody asked with male suspicion.

"Oh, the Knock-Kneed Knights always keep their
word," Moola assured her. "They are creatures of chival-
ric honor. They believe that, without honor, they would be
nothing at all. They are tough warriors and heartless
creatures, but they would never dishonor their word."

I began to perceive a certain barbarian ethic here.
Maybe we could come to terms with the Knights.

The only escapes from these caves were through the
territories of the gnomes or Knights. So, if we did not
wish to remain here, we would have to go one way or the
other. If we really wanted to do the cowfolk a favor on
our way out...

Threnody was doubtful, but I wasn't. "We ought to
help these good folk," I said. "Not just because it's a way
out, but because they are in genuine need. Besides, it
sounds like a grand adventure."

"Grand adventure!" she exclaimed. "More like a night-
mare! We could get killed!"

"I'd rather get killed in a good fight for justice than
boiled ignominiously in a pot. Of course, the easy thing
would be to stay here and sing for the bovines forever
while they slowly starve."

"You retain some of those bold masculine notions,"
she muttered. "But I suppose we have little choice. You

Crewel lye                     233

could change into a mouse and sneak out alone, but I
can't—and anyway, I want my body back before you
ruin it." She straightened my massive shoulders and ad-
dressed the King again. "Your Majesty, we have decided
to take the place of your two sacrifices and go to battle
with the Knights' Champion. Perhaps we shall defeat him
and free you of your annual tribute; if not, at least two
of your own folk shall be spared this year."

King Ferdinand made a bellow of pleased surprise.
"Zhiz is aa heroig zhing yoo dzoo!" Moola translated.
"Yoo arr aa graaze mmaann!"

"Aa graaze mmaann," Threnody agreed with irony.
And privately to me: "You and your damned noble in-
stincts!"

The sacrifice wasn't due until next month, but the King
was sure the Knights would accept it early. We decided
to go the next day.

First we had to prepare for the encounter. The cowfolk
cooperated in fitting Threnody with a bullhead, so that
she looked very much like the King himself. The bovines
were fairly clever with their human hands and had fash-
ioned likenesses of the heads of their heroes of the past,
made from cloth, plaster, and paint. This particular mask-
head was a representation of the Minotaur, a bygone hero
who had gone to Mundania to seek his fortune. He was
believed to have acquitted himself very well in labyrinth
competition there, slaying many Mundanes. Naturally,
things were better with fewer Mundanes. "Iv oonlee wee
hadz hiz llighe aagenn," Moola said reverently. "Vudz
wee arr zoo veesvull nnow."

"Too peaceful," I agreed. "Yet there is merit in that."

For my part, I used my body's talent. First I expanded
my size to that of Threnody's body. My body, techni-
cally. Next I increased my density to make myself normal
again. Then I changed my head to become that of a homed
cow.

The cowfolk, watching this one-hour transformation,
were amazed. So was Threnody. "You did it three times
as fast as I do!" she exclaimed.

"I started to change to a giant twice as tall as you," I

234 Crewel Lye

I stopped when I was your height, so only ten minutes
had passed. Then I started to increase my mass eightfold,
but stopped after fifteen minutes, when it was only dou-
ble. Finally I changed my head, leaving the rest of my
body alone, so that only took half an hour."

"But the whole body has to change!" she protested.

"No, it doesn't. If you change from human shape to
cowgirl shape, only the head changes. Otherwise you
couldn't assume some partly human forms, such as this
one or that of a harpy or centaur."

She shook her head. "I wouldn't believe it, but I just
saw you do it; you've learned more about my talent in
three days than I did in a lifetime!"

"Just lucky," I said smugly.

Her eyes narrowed. "I thought barbarians were sort
of stupid. You're smarter than—" She shrugged. "You're
really quite a—a person."

I shrugged. "I'm close to nature, that's all. Your talent
is a natural thing, your demon heritage."

"Natural!" she muttered with mixed emotions.

We had a supper of fresh moss, as that was all that
was available. It wasn't tasty by our standards, but it did
feed us. We slept in a chamber lined with old straw, which
was a precious substance here; the cowfolk were treating
us royally.

Next day we set out for the challenge. Moola had ex-
plained how to find the Knights, who would give us swords
if they accepted our status as Sacrifice. It was simply a
matter of walking to the lower level and mooing for at-
tention. The Knights, like most arrogant conquerors, did
not bother to speak the subjects' language.

"Vaarr wwelll!" Moola said as we departed, a big, lovely
bovine tear in her brown eyes.

"Fare well, Moola," I replied, giving her a female hug.
I was now much bigger than she, but the sentiment was
the same. I had increased my size because I felt that would
give me a better chance in the action to come. Part of
what sets women at a disadvantage is their smaller size,
and that was one disadvantage this body did not have to
put up with.

Crewel Lye

235

We walked down the indicated route. The caves looked
strange from my bovine eyes; I could see behind me as
well as before me, but detail was not as clear as I liked.
Very soon we were in the forbidden territory, so we started
mooing to advertise our presence. Otherwise, we had been
warned, we could be slaughtered casually as trespassers
or as strays from the herd.

It wasn't long before a figure in metal armor appeared.
It was large—as large as we were—and so completely
covered that no flesh was visible. A forbidding apparition,
indeed!

"Moo!" we mooed together.

The specter studied us, one gauntleted hand on the
huge sword slung at its metal hip. Then it turned and
walked away. Its armor did rattle some, but its knees did
not actually knock. Nervously, we followed, presuming
we had been accepted as the Sacrifice and would be per-
mitted the privilege of Running the Gantlet.

Sure enough, we were brought to an arena. It wasn't
really a labyrinth, or a gantlet, but rather an open area
surrounded by a warren of low channels. As we stood in
the center, more suits of armor filed in, taking seats on
these low walls. In fact, I now saw that these were tiered
benches, the ones behind set higher than those before, so
that the Knights could all see clearly into the arena. Empty,
it looked like a labyrinth; filled, it was an audience cham-
ber.

In the center of the arena, beside us, was a ramp. It
started level with the floor, fairly wide, and rose at a slight
incline as it crossed the arena. Near the edge, the ramp
curved and went back, still rising. Across the arena, it
bent once more and had another straight run. By this time
it was fairly high, so that a person would not want to fall
from it.

At the uppermost end of the ramp, far overhead, was
a metal gate—and beyond that was the light of day. That
was the route to the surface! That was our escape! That
distant spot of light looked wonderful. Below, the only
illumination was by murky torches.

What was to prevent us from simply marching up that

236

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Crewel lye

237

ramp and out that gate? Well, the gate was closed and
surely locked; we'd have to break through, which would
be very difficult and perhaps impossible, or get the key
to the lock. That key could be anywhere and certainly
not where we could get it. The gate would open when the
Knights chose to open it, not otherwise.

But why, then, make a ramp up to it? Was this a high-
way the Knights used themselves? Then why have it in
the arena? Surely they did not form an audience every
time one of their number went topside!

We were not kept waiting long. Once the theater was
filled, a Knight walked to the base of the ramp. He faced
us and drew out a chain with a large metal key on it. Then
he walked up the ramp, swinging the key, tramping around
each curve until he was high above the floor, approaching
the gate. He used the key on the lock of the gate, and the
gate swung open. Then he pulled the gate closed, locked
it, and walked back down the ramp. No question about
it; this was our escape route. We would have to earn that

key.

As the Knight reached the base of the ramp, he looped

the chain about his armored neck. Then he walked to the
far wall. A door opened, and an armored horse emerged.
The Knight went to this steed, mounted, and took up a

long, sharp lance.

"But what about our swords?" Threnody asked nerv-
ously.

The Knight spurred his steed, who charged forward.

The monstrous lance descended to point at us.

"I think the cowfolk got the wrong information about
that!" 1 cried. 1 had kept a human tongue in my cowhead

so I could talk readily.

"Or these honorable Knights have broken the agree-
ment," Threnody said bitterly. "No wonder no cowboy

has ever won this challenge!"

"But they're supposed to be nothing at all, without
honor," I said. "Does this count as a breach of—"

We dived to either side as the mounted Knight charged
through. The hooves of the steed barely missed us as it

passed.

We scrambled to our feet as the Knight braked his
steed, slowed, and turned. "We're lambs for the slaugh-
ter!" Threnody cried.

"You escape up the ramp while I distract him," I said,
as the Knight started his next pass.

"No good without the key!" she cried.

The Knight charged again. That sent us both diving
over the ramp. We had better sidewise maneuverability
than the Knight did, but sooner or later that terrible lance
would skewer one of us.

Again we scrambled as the Knight slowed and turned.
"We've got to get rid of that lance!" I exclaimed.

"Sure! How?"

"I'll drop on him from above," I said. "You distract
him so I can—"

The Knight thundered at us again. Threnody ran away
to the side, while I raced up the ramp. With diverging
targets, the Knight had to choose one, and he went after
Threnody. She ran and dodged with the fleetness of des-
peration and a powerful body. The Knight swerved to
pursue her, and I got the feeling that this was what the
knightly audience really wanted—the sport of the hunt.
We were not opponents, we were fleeing prey. One victim
would have been too easy to dispatch, but two was more
of a challenge, so they set it up that way. To help provide
the illusion that the prey might escape.

I considered that as I ran upward, rounding the first
turn. For sport, the Knight would not slaughter us right
away; he would play with us, making us react, and per-
haps be applauded by the audience for an artistic perform-
ance. That might give us more leeway. He might even
withhold his killing stroke if the points were wrong, wait-
ing for the chance for a better score.

"Threnody!" I called. "Take off your dress!" For my
body, which she was using now, still was wearing the
brown dress I had donned at Threnody's house. It was
soiled and torn, but represented a fair quantity of material.

"Huh?" she called out as she cut back, causing the
Knight to overshoot her position. No points for him on




238

Crewel Lye

that pass! My well-coordinated body was proving to be
a boon to her as she learned how to use it.

"Take it off!" I repeated, still running. I was now head
height; soon I'd be high enough to be above the Knight.
"Use it to bait him with!"

"I don't understand!" she cried, ducking out of the way
again.

There was no time for a detailed explanation. Maybe
the mask-helmet Threnody wore prevented her from hear-
ing exactly what I was saying. I would have to make a
demonstration.

I struggled out of my own dress as I ran; it was tight
on me anyway, in my larger size, despite the tucks I had
let out to accommodate my girth. Theoretically, the dress
should have expanded with me, and maybe it had, but
somehow my extra mass bulged more in proportion. I saw
the helmeted heads of the Knights in the audience turn
to follow me. Oops—I hadn't thought of that! I wore
nothing under the dress and I was one big girl now. My
anatomy bobbled all over as I ran. I had tried to keep the
proportions the same, but realized belatedly that I should
have slimmed them down; mass does make a difference,
so that the giant has to have different proportions from
the normal person in order to carry his weight conveni-
ently. Now that the dress was off, I was really hanging
out.

Well, that couldn't be helped. I had to show Threnody
what I meant. "Like this in front of him!" I cried, holding
the dress so it formed a swatch of gray to the side. "Make
him charge it instead of you!"

Now she understood. She ripped off her brown dress,
and I saw the visors of the audience swivel to follow her.
It seemed the Knights got a voyeuristic thrill from seeing
people disrobe; evidently they never got out of their ar-
mor. Not in public, anyway. Strange folk!

Threnody stood naked and held the dress to the side,
forming a cape of it. The Knight, who perhaps did not
see too well from the saddle with his visor closed, aimed
his lance at the dress. Of course the point slid through it,
brushing it aside, and Threnody did not have to dive out

Crewel Lye                    239

of the way. Well, she still had to step clear of the horse,
but this was an improvement.

"Get him to pass under me!" I cried, stopping at a
suitable elevation on the ramp.

Threnody tried. She ran under—but the Knight passed
to the side, so I couldn't drop on him. However, we
seemed to have a viable program.

The Knight turned and came back—and this time he
was on target. As he passed under me, I dropped on him,
landing just in front of him on the horse. I could have
sworn his visor slits widened as my bare anatomy came
up against his faceplate. But my ample posterior was
crushing down his arms and lance, interfering with his
action. He could hardly have been pleased.

I grabbed the chain around his neck and ripped it off.
I had the key! Then I realized that I had a pretty good
position here and I tried to haul him off his horse with
me. I squirmed around, attempting to pin his arms to his
sides, but he turned out to be very strong, and I had only
woman's muscles. His hands came up, letting go of the
lance, and grasped me with horrible force. In a moment
he heaved me from the horse.

I landed partly on my feet, but without balance, and
sat down hard. I had a lot of padding in that region, but
that landing smarted! It was as if I had been spanked by
a giant.

However, I had a victory of sorts, for not only did I
have the chain with the key, I had caused the Knight to
drop his lance. Threnody was hurrying to pick it up.

"Go up and unlock the gate!" she cried. "I'll fend him
off here!"

"You don't know how to use that thing," I pointed out.
"He'll wipe you out with his sword!" Indeed, the Knight
was already drawing his great blade. It was dusky black,
and reminded me ominously of the evil sword Magician
Yang had sent against me.

"But you don't have the muscle for this!" she re-
sponded. And she had a point; that lance was one heavy
pole. I could see why the Knight was strong; he had to
be, to carry his weapons.

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Crewel Lye

241

Now the Knight charged us both, the terrible sword
gleaming wickedly. We both wrestled with the lance,
heaving it up—but we were at the end, and the point was
at the other end, far distant, and by the time we managed
to lift that point, the Knight was upon us. His sword
slashed down and lopped off the point of the lance. Again
we had to dive out of the way, ignominiously.

"We've got to stop splitting up this way!" Threnody
gasped as we got up on either side of the fallen lance.

"We can still use this," I said, picking up the severed
point, which was about half my body length. It was a
sword of a sort. "You get the other part."

She picked it up, finding it more manageable now that
it was shorter. The Knight had unwittingly done us a
favor. He had helped arm us.

As the Knight charged this time, we attacked him from
either side, swinging our sticks at him. He merely lifted
his shield to fend me off on the left and slashed down at
Threnody's arms on the right. She jerked back, but the
sword cut off her left hand. It plopped to the floor, fingers
curling spastically.

"Damn you!" she cried as the Knight turned for the
next charge, a smear of blood on his blade. She jammed
the stump of her wrist into her own side to stop the blood
from spurting out, but already that flow was abating as
my healing talent manifested. She stooped to pick up the
fallen hand. Then, as the Knight advanced, she hurled
that hand at his head.

The Knight was one tough fighter, but this startled him.
The hand clutched at his visor, one finger poking into an
eye-slit. It looked like a distorted spider trying to get
inside the helmet. It couldn't get inside, of course. The
Knight should have known the separated hand was harm-
less, but he reacted with remarkable vigor. He halted his
steed and grabbed for the hand with his left gauntlet.

I took advantage of his distraction to leap up and spread
my gray dress over the entire helmet. I clung, forming a
hood of gray material, so that he was blinded. "Get his
sword!" I cried.

But already that arm and sword were thrashing about,

and Threnody could not get close. So I grabbed for the
sword arm myself. My leverage was bad, and when I let
go of the hood, it started to slide off. The Knight got a
glove up and shoved me violently away, so that I fell on
my sore bare bottom again. The dress slid down. Now
the Knight could see again and he retained his weapon.

However, Threnody saved the moment. Unable to get
near the Knight, she went for the horse. She got her mouth
close to an armored ear and yelled, "Booo!"

The horse spooked, naturally enough. It neighed and
reared. The Knight fell off and clanked to the floor. Thren-
ody scrambled to fling herself on the extended sword arm,
pinning it to the floor, while I made a flying leap for the
head.

My weight knocked the helmet from the armored body.
It squirted out from under my feet and rolled across the
floor. Simultaneously, the body went dead. Threnody was
able to wrench the sword away from the abruptly flaccid
gauntlet.

I peered into the neck of the armor—and there was
nothing. I looked at the separated helmet. It, too, was
empty!

There was nothing in this suit of armor. Nothing at all.

Threnody looked at me. "Empty armor?" she asked,
bewildered. "But it fought us!"

"It fought without honor," I said. "We were unarmed.
Without honor, the Knights are nothing at all."

"Then what about all the others, who permitted it?"

We looked out at the audience. Now each Knight there
reached up a gauntlet to open his visor. Inside each hel-
met—was nothing.

"They're all empty!" I breathed. "The Knights are all
bodiless!"

"No wonder they never removed their armor," Thren-
ody said. "Without their armor—" She paused to look at
me, realizing the significance of my statement about honor.
"They're nothing!"

"Let's get out of here before they decide to do some-
thing dishonorable!" I said.

She looked around. "That horse," she said.




242

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Crewel Lye

243

"What about it?"

"It looks familiar."

"It's buried in armor, just like the Knights," I pro-
tested. "It's probably empty too."

"No, its hooves show. It's a real horse."

I walked over to it. The armored horse stood still,
waiting for its rider to return. I saw there were metal
straps holding its armor together. I unbuckled one at the
neck, so as to uncover the head.

Underneath was a real horsehead, no phantom. "What's
a live horse doing in a place like this?" I asked.

Threnody, one-handed, removed a portion of the body
armor. "It's a ghost horse!" she exclaimed.

Sure enough, there were the chains wrapped about the
barrel. "A ghost horse, serving armored ghosts!" I said.

"We killed its master," she pointed out. "We're entitled
to what the Knight had, anything of it we want. The spoils."

"We'll keep the sword," I said. "As for the horse—
we can free it."

"Free her," Threnody said, unbuckling more armor.

"She's a mare."

"A knight-mare," I said, realizing the manner in which
this made sense. "Let's ride her up the ramp and out—
and let her go on the surface."

"Agreed. We owe her that. We won the match when
she spooked."

And Threnody had been the one to think of that ploy.
I would remember that.

We got the rest of the armor off while the assembled
Knights watched emptily, evincing no emotion. It seemed
they did honor the rest of their deal. We had won; we
were free. And there would be no more cowfolk sacrifices,
and the grazing range would be expanded. We had done
our part for the creatures who had helped us. That pleased

me.

I mounted the ghost mare. "Don't forget my hand," I
reminded Threnody.

She picked up the fallen hand and stuck it to her wrist,
which had stopped bleeding and started to heal over. At
first she placed it backward, but she corrected that im-


mediately. "I'll walk," she decided. "I can't ride while
holding this together."

"It won't take long to re-attach, but it will be weak for
an hour or so," I advised her.

So I guided the mare up the ramp, carefully, while
Threnody walked behind, holding my hand. The walk
became slightly nervous business at the height, but the
knight-mare was sure-footed, and we reached the gate
without misstep. That was just as well. The assembled
Knights watched us with their empty faces, still making
no move to stop us.

"Those hollow men are eerie," Threnody muttered.

I dismounted and took the key to the lock. It worked,
and the gate swung open. We moved through, then I re-
turned to lock the gate behind us. 1 flung the key through,
so that it dropped to the arena below; after all, it belonged
to the Knights, and we had no intention of returning.

We stood in a pleasant, open forest of mixed types of
trees—beeches, sandalwoods, and other shore types,
which indicated there was a lake nearby. There were a
number of fruit and nut trees. We could travel through
this very comfortably.

"Well, ghost horse," I said. "You're on your own now."

The mare looked at me. She rattled her chains inquir-
ingly.

"You're free," I said. "Go romp through the wilder-
ness."

She just stood there and gazed at me from beneath long
equine lashes. She had lovely dark eyes, even for a horse,
though her coat was light.

"She doesn't understand," Threnody said, wiggling the
fingers of her left hand, which was now firmly attached
and improving rapidly. Then she removed her bovine mask.

"Nonsense!" I said. "Pook understands every word I
say. I'm sure Peek does, too."

"Peek?"

"Look at her eyes!"

Indeed, the mare was peeking soulfully at us. Whoever
says animals don't have souls is crazy.

"She's peeking," Threnody agreed. "Maybe she does




244 Crewel Lye

understand. But she may be tame. She could have been
raised in captivity by the Knights; she's a knight-mare."

"You know, Pook could still be waiting for us among
the artis-trees," I said, realizing. "Peek's a ghost mare.
Do you think—?"

"You women are always matchmaking!" she said.

"And you men are always trying to avoid commit-
ment!" I retorted. Then we both laughed, to the mare's
confusion.

So we decided to take Peek back to the artis-forest to
meet Pook. After that, it would be up to them. If Peek
was nervous about going out alone, Pook could guide her.

I reduced myself to normal size, returned my head to
human, and dissipated my extra mass. Peek watched all
this with equine astonishment. Then we found a toga tree
that enabled us to cover our immodesty with togas. I took
a blue one, and Threnody a red one. Peek shook her head,
knowing we had the colors reversed; even animals knew
that blue was for boys and red for girls. I patted her neck.
"It's complicated to explain," I said.

I rode Peek north, while Threnody walked; her big
barbarian body could keep the pace much better than my
feminine one could. Soon we reached the dead tree—and
there was Pook, faithfully waiting. He gave a glad neigh
as he spied us—then did a double take as he spied Peek.

I introduced them. "Pook, this is Peek. She helped us
escape the underworld. Peek, this is Pook, my friend."

The two ghost horses sniffed noses cautiously. They
rattled their chains, making a kind of music together. They
decided they liked each other.

"If only it were that easy for human folk," Threnody
said somewhat wistfully.

"If you two want to trot elsewhere, you're welcome,"
I told Pook. "Peek's not sure she's ready for the wilder-
ness, but you can show her."

The two nickered at each other and decided to stay.
"Does that mean we can both ride?" I asked, pleased. It
turned out that it did.

So I took Pook and Threnody rode Peek, and we bore

Crewel Lye

245

south. In the evening we stopped and foraged and grazed,
as the case might be. "Hey, look at this!" Threnody called.

I went over. It was a bush covered with bright disks
of glass, each disk slightly curved. They were too small
for mirrors. I picked a disk and held it to my right eye to
see it better—and it jumped out of my hand and plunked
itself against my eyeball. Startled, I stepped back, but the
glass hadn't harmed me; it just covered the front of my
eyeball so that I had to look through it. The surprising
thing was that my vision seemed clearer through that eye
than through the other. The focus was sharper and the
colors better defined. "It's a vision-improver!" I ex-
claimed.

"Oh, I've heard of them," she said. "They're called
contact lenses, because they make close contact. When
your sight gets old and fuzzy, you wear a couple of these
and they bring it up to snuff. We'll have to remember
where this optical bush is; it's valuable."

I pried the lens off my eyeball. "I guess it's all right,
but I don't need it."

Threnody peered over the bush. "What's that on the
other side?" she asked.

I walked around the bush toward it. Threnody close
on my heels. "Some sort of doll or figurine—"

The black doll flashed. And suddenly I was drifting
out of my body, hovering and homing in on the brute,
barbarian body beside me. I dropped into it, dizzy.

"The evil spell!" I cried with big, crude lips. "It was
set here to intercept us—but we're already exchanged,
so it just switched us back!"

Threnody patted herself, making sure. "So it did," she
said, pleased. Then she looked at me. "Now we don't
need each other any more."

I felt a sinking sensation. "You mean you're going to
start running again?"

She considered. "You know, if I rode Peek, I could
probably get home all right."

During our underground odyssey, I had tended to for-
get that we were enemies. Now I perceived the kind of
trap this could be. I acted instantly, my barbarian reflexes




246 Crewel Lye

serving me well. "Pook! Peek!" I cried, running toward
the grazing horses. My big male muscles gave me more
speed than Threnody had now. "We've changed back!
Don't do anything Threnody says!"

Pook looked at me uncertainly, and it was evident that
Peek had no notion what I was talking about. "Remember
how we met," I said to Pook. "How you tried to scare
me at night, and I circled around you and you thought I
was still at my camp, and—"

Pook interrupted me with a neigh. He understood.

"Well, as long as we were in the wrong bodies. Thren-
ody and I couldn't separate," I said. "We had to coop-
erate, just to survive. But now we're back in our own
bodies, and she can flee me. She wants to ride Peek back
to her home. Don't take us anywhere but south, toward
Castle Roogna. Can you tell Peek that, so she under-
stands?"

Pook nodded. He would take care of it.

I relaxed. I had acted in time. I still did have my mission
to complete, after all.

Threnody came up behind me. "Well, you certainly
fixed that, barbarian!" she said severely. "You don't trust
me at all, do you!"

"Barbarians are ignorant, not stupid," I replied, stung.

It was getting dark now. She accompanied me to the
fern bed we had fashioned in the radiating branches of a
treehouse tree. "You will want to hold onto me again, to
be sure I don't flee in the night."

"I don't—"

"You can't afford to trust me, but I trust you." And
she curled up next to me, ready for sleep.

Somehow I didn't feel at ease, but I didn't seem to
have much choice in the matter, so I comported myself
for sleep.

This night was cooler than the others had been. "I've
gotten used to your larger mass," Threnody murmured.
"I'm cold in this little body."

"You can make it bigger," I reminded her.

"That takes too long."

"You can have my cloak," I offered, removing my red

Crewel Lye                     247

toga and spreading it out. Now its color was wrong, as it
was truly being used by a male; I'd fetch another in the
morning.

"We'll share," she decided. She removed her own gar-
ment, arranged the two togas as blankets, and nestled
right up next to me.

I lay stiffly awake for some time, wondering exactly
how smart I was. Did I even want to deliver her to Castle
Roogna now, so another man could marry her? Naturally
I had no interest in her myself... or did I? Why did things
have to be so complicated with human beings? Why
couldn't we, as Threnody had remarked, just sniff noses,
rattle chains, and be satisfied?

Yet if we were not what we were, creatures with at
least the awareness of purpose and honor, what would
we be? Empty knights in armor, seeming so strong on the
outside, yet hollow inside? Who was I to deny the human
condition, with all its problems of awareness?

"If I weren't on a mission, you wouldn't be safe a
moment!" I muttered at her soft, warm, shapely, breath-
ing, sleeping body.

"I know," she whispered, stretched electrically against
me, and returned to sleep.
A pox on women!

Chapter 14. Idiocy

In the morning we donned new togas of the cor-
rect colors, foraged for more food, mounted, and rode
south again. I knew we were getting reasonably close to
Castle Roogna. I would be sorry to have this mission end.
I hoped Threnody would never know how close she had
come to diverting me from it. But if she had had occasion




248 Crewel Lye

to comprehend the male viewpoint, I had similarly ex-
perienced the female position. I knew her body well; I
had been in it, literally. I refused to take advantage of it.

Peek grew nervous as we progressed, and finally balked.
I was riding Pook, and we stopped beside her. "What's
the matter with her?" I asked, concerned. She was such
a nice horse, and had been quite docile till now.

Pook whinnied at her, then listened to her reply. He
tensed. "Some danger ahead?" I asked. "She knows this
region?"

"A monster?" Threnody asked. "I can change form
until she indicates that it matches whatever monster she's
thinking of. That way we can identify it precisely."

"At an hour a change?" I asked. "That could take for-
ever!"

"Do you have a better way?"

"Yes." And I proceeded to name monsters for the
horses. Quickly we eliminated Dragon, Griffin, Sphinx,
Tarasque, Goblin, Callicantzari, Sea Monster, and Harpy.
I was beginning to fish for other notions, when Threnody
put in one.

"Basilisk," she said.

Peek nodded emphatically.

Further questioning turned up the news that it wasn't
just one basilisk, whose gaze would kill people; it was a
whole colony of them. This was, in fact, the Land of the
Basks, where cockatrices, henatrices, and chickatrices
congregated for regular staring tournaments. This was no
safe region for any other creature.

"But we have to pass it to reach Castle Roogna!" I
said. "Can we circle around the bask territory?"

It turned out that we couldn't; the mountains and sands
combined to make this the only feasible route south. But
there was a way to pass through it; at night the basks
slept, and if the two horses galloped through then, they
could clear the region by daybreak. Then it would be an
easy ride to Castle Roogna.

"Good," I said, relieved. "We'll rest here, then set off
at nightfall."

I set off foraging again, as this body liked to eat well.

Crewel Lye                     249

I spied a spaghetti tree with the edible strands hanging
down in tempting masses.

I grabbed a hank—and discovered hanging behind it
a black eye-queue vine. "Oops," I said, drawing hastily
away.

But of course, I couldn't escape it. The vine flashed—
and suddenly I was so stupid I could hardly figure out
what I was doing.

I stumbled back to the camp, dragging the hank of
spaghetti strands behind me.."What's the matter, Jor-
dan?" Threnody asked, perceiving that something was
wrong.

"Duh," I replied.

"What?"

"Duh," I repeated firmly.

I was stupid, but she was not. "Those bad spells—you
mentioned one for idiocy! Did that one strike?"

I nodded stupidly.

Had I been smarter, I could have anticipated her thought
processes. But I was dull. In fact, I was about as unin-
telligent as a barbarian gets, which is pretty un.

"I think," she said slowly, "that, considering your con-
dition, it is now too dangerous to proceed south through
bask territory. One of those cocks or hens might wake
up and wipe us all out. Don't you agree, Jordan?"

"Yuh," I said, happy to go along with superior rea-
soning.

Pook's ears flattened back. He was not stupid and he
was not going to go along! Peek stood with him, following
his lead.

"I think we should go north instead," Threnody con-
tinued carefully. "It is so much safer traveling a familiar
route."

"Yuh," I agreed. It was a good thing she was still smart.

"Then we can go around to the north, and avoid both
the basks and the sands, and reach Castle Roogna safely,"
she said. "This will take a little longer, but it's so much
more certain. Don't you agree, Jordan?"

"Yuh," I agreed again. It was so nice of her to consult




250 Crewel Lye

me like this! Something nagged at my sodden brain, but
I couldn't quite figure out what it was, so ignored it.

"We'll rest here tonight, and I'll take good care of you,
and in the morning you'll just tell the horses to carry us
north, won't you?" she asked persuasively.

"Yuh."

Pook looked ready to kick someone, maybe me. I
couldn't think why.

"Because that business about going south no-matter-
what doesn't apply any more, does it? You know better
now."

"Yuh," I said, a little uncertainly.

She smiled. She was awfully pretty when she did that.
"You've been struck by the idiocy spell, so I realize it's
a little hard for you to figure out right now. But we'll sleep
on it, and I'm sure you'll be satisfied by morning."

Pook snorted with absolute disgust and stomped away.
I heard him neighing something to Peek. They were trying
to figure out what to do. Evidently Pook didn't want to
listen to what I would be telling him in the morning. Strange
animal!

Then Threnody took me by the hand and led me to
our niche for the night, and she was so lovely that I knew
she must be right.

We settled down in that bower, and she arranged the
togas over us as blankets, and crooned a lovely little mel-
ody, and got very close to me. She was all sleek and soft
and warm, the shape of man's desire. "In fact, I have an
even better idea," she murmured in my ear, her breath
like a playful summer breezelet, ticklish and nice. "Let's
go back to my house together."

"Huh?" I asked, perplexed.

"You don't really want to turn me over to some Ma-
gician at Castle Roogna, do you?" she urged convincingly.

I didn't follow all her reasoning, but her bare body was
so smooth and special against mine, and I realized how
nice it would be to do whatever she had in mind. Some
things do not require a great deal of intelligence. "Nuh,"
I agreed.

Crewel Lye                     251

She moved against me, and I hugged her to me, be-
ginning to get a glimmer of what we could—

Then there was a fluttering in the forest, and something
white showed. It came right up to us—a big, long-billed
bird. In fact, it was a stork.

"A stork!" Threnody exclaimed, shaken. She drew away
from me as if I had become a monster. "I hadn't thought
of that!"

, I reached for her again, but for some reason the sight
of the stork had turned her off, and she shrank away from
me. Women can be very funny about irrelevant things.

The stork landed beside us and closed its wings. "I'm
looking for Jordan the Barbarian," it said.

"For him?" Threnody squeaked. "You birds never bring
your bundles to men\" Then she turned thoughtful.
"Though it might be a good thing if you did. After all, fair
is fair."

The stork ignored her. Bureaucratic creatures seldom
concern themselves with fairness. It turned to me. "Jor-
dan?"

"Yuh," I answered.

"I am investigating a recent event. It seems that one
of our number was lost during a mission, and we are
uncertain whether his bundle was properly delivered. You
have been implicated. Do you care to testify?"

Something about that last word sounded dirty to me.
"To what?"

"To clarify what happened just north of the—wherever
it was."

Oh. I was stupid, but I remembered the episode. "Ogre,"
I said.

The stork lifted a free feather and perused its lines
closely. "Yes, that was an Oct-ogre delivery. What hap-
pened to the stork?"

"Dragon," I said. "Chomp. Injured wing—no fly more."

The bird used the tip of his bill to make a mark on the
feather. "That corroborates what we concluded. What
happened to the bundle?"

I concentrated, and some of my wit returned. "De-
livered," I said.

252

Crewel lye

Crewel Lye

253

The stork elevated one eyebrow. I hadn't realized be-
fore then that they had eyebrows. "You delivered it?"

"Yuh. Ogret."

He made another note on the feather. "Highly irreg-
ular!"

"I'll say!" Threnody put in. "Whoever heard of a man
delivering a baby!"

"Had to be done," I said defensively.

The stork put away his feather. "To be sure. And what
was the fate of the injured stork?"

"Eaten," I said.

The bird straightened up and half spread his wings.
"You what7"

"Not me. 'Nother dragon."

"Oh." The stork relaxed, making another note. "Un-
able to fly, fell prey to dragon." He glanced up. "It is,
after all, hazardous duty. We get flight pay. Just so long
as the bundle was safely delivered."

"Yuh."

"Thank you. That will be all." The stork spread his
wings, then paused. "It is our policy to reward those who
render useful service. Would you like a—"

"No!" Threnody cried, alarmed.

The stork made another note. "Reward of lucky feather
declined," he muttered, speaking to himself. Then he
spread his wings again and took off. .

"You cost me lucky feather!" I accused Threnody.

She ignored this. "You are on intimate terms with
storks?" she demanded.

"Yuh." It was too complicated to explain in detail.
"Now you." I reached for her.

She jerked away. "Don't you touch me!" she screeched.

"Huh?"

"Not while there are storks in the neighborhood!"

I didn't grasp her objection, but did grasp that she had
changed her mind. Disappointed, I lay back. Women can
be awfully hard to understand!

In the morning the horses were gone. Pook had left
the bag with the remaining spells, so I knew he wasn't

coming back. Stupid as I was, I still understood why:

because he knew I was going to ask him and Peek to take
us north. I couldn't figure out why it was so bad to go
north, since Threnody had explained the reason so sen-
sibly. But Pook wouldn't go that way, so he had left.
Therefore we couldn't go north, either. He had been free
to leave us anytime, but had chosen this time because of
our irreconcilable difference of opinion about direction.
I was really sorry to lose him, yet couldn't blame him.
Sometimes the best thing a friend can do is to refuse to
help a friend-gone-wrong. Not that I had gone wrong,
but—well, anyway, it was too bad.

Then I had a notion. "Spells!" I exclaimed.

"But they don't work right," Threnody said, evidently
nervous about another foul-up like the exchange of iden-
tities.

"Maybe help anyway," I said with foolish eagerness.
I pawed through the mostly empty bag and fished out the
little white skull. "Life!" I said.

"Life? You mean it—it restores someone who has died?
You don't need that."

I wasn't smart, but my memory remained good. "Mixed
up. This not life."

"Oh—you mean it has to be some other spell—one
that may help us travel?"

"Yuh." Then, before I could become confused, I said:

"Invoke."

The skull glowed—and expanded. A ridge appeared
that circled around the staring face. This projected out
until it formed a full-sized shield, while the face flattened
into a picture of itself on the surface of that shield. The
back of the skull became the apparatus by which the shield
could be comfortably supported on the left arm.

"Say!" I exclaimed, pleased. "Nice shield!"

"If we had needed a shield," Threnody said curtly, "we
could have taken the Knight's shield. How does this help
us travel?"

But I remained delighted with this acquisition. I had
never had a shield of my own before, because barbarians
are too primitive to understand a shield's proper use.




254                     Crewel Lye

However, my experiences with flame-shooting dragons
and lance-bearing Knights had provided me with an ink-
ling. Sometimes defense was a good thing, even for a
barbarian. Or so I supposed, now that I was stupid.

I put the shield on my arm and postured with it, slicing
the air with my sword. We now had two swords, since
we had recovered my own from near the dead tree, as
well as saving the Knight's. "Take that!" I exclaimed,
striking at an imaginary foe. "And that!" Then I lifted the
shield, as if warding off an enemy blow. "Nyaa! Nyaa!
You can't get me!"

"Some toy!" Threnody muttered, disgusted. Women
don't understand about war games. But they sure are fun
for the young-of-brain.

In due course I settled down, and we came to grips
with the problem of traveling. "I suppose we'll have to
walk," Threnody said, unthrilled. "But it will take us a
couple of days, and I'll be footsore. Damn those horses!"

"Yuh," I agreed amicably.

She focused on me. "You won't stay stupid forever,"
she said. "These spells wear off after a few days, don't
they?"

"Yuh," I said. "Some do."

"A man does have his uses," she said to herself. "As
long as I'm single, I'm vulnerable on one level or another.
The only way to finish this nuisance for good is to marry
an amiable man, not too bright..." Then she looked up,
as if becoming aware of me. "Very well—I'll carry you.
At least that will get us there."

"Huh?"

"I'll change into a dollarpede," she decided. "That's a
hundred times the size of a centipede, but not vicious like
the nickel or dimepedes, because it doesn't have any metal
pincers. A doilarpede has no metal backbone, so it has
been losing strength for decades. It's a helpless form,
subject to the whims of whoever handles it; you'll have
to protect me with your sword and shield."

"Helpless?"

"Dollarpedes just seem to keep getting devalued by
everything else they encounter," she said. "Until finally

Crewel Lye

255

they look as big as ever, but they're hardly worth anything
at all. Maybe that's because they're made mostly of pa-
per."

"Paper?" I was stupid, but even to me that sounded
funny.

"Some of them have silver support," she said. "Those
ones are stronger, but they're very rare. I'll become one
of that kind."

"Yuh," I agreed, reassured.

Of course it took time. First she changed her form,
after cautioning me to keep a sharp eye out for predators,
as she was most vulnerable while changing. "Everybody
grabs for dollarpedes!" Had I been smarter, I would have
realized that that was the main reason she needed me
right now. If she had been able to change safely when
alone in the jungle, she could have deserted me and headed
directly for home. So she had to take me along. My brain
wasn't worth much now, but my body and sword and
shield were. But of course she didn't tell me that; she told
me she liked me and wanted my companionship. It's an
old ploy women use on men. And I, being stupid, believed
her.

Though even now I wonder what she could have meant
by that remark about marrying an amiable, not-too-bright
man. Certainly she didn't mean Magician. Yin, and events
were to prove that she didn't mean me. But as I have
said, even when I have been smart, I haven't really under-
stood women.

In an hour she was in the form of the dollarpede, with
the mass of a person. Then she worked on her size, ex-
panding up to a creature so large it could carry me—-
except that she was now too diffuse to support my weight,
since her mass had not changed. In the third hour she
increased her mass, until finally there she stood before
me complete—a creature with fifty pairs of legs, dull1
green in hue on one side, gray on the other, with all sorts
of print and numbers on it. The face was gray and looked
a little like that of a sphinx, while the backside resembled
a bird waxing amorous with a shield. Overall, the thing
did seem sort of papery, with corrugations supporting

256                    Crewel Lye

each set of legs, but the silver backbone gave it strength
to support me.

I mounted, and stacked the spell-bag and extra sword
behind me. This was the strangest creature I had ridden—
but of course, most of my prior experience had been with
Pook. If this dollarpede could do the job, all right.

The creature started moving. This was interesting. First
the number one set of legs stepped forward, quickly fol-
lowed by the number two set, followed in turn by number
three, and so on down the line in a ripple. There was a
gentle sway as the ripple passed under me and proceeded
to the tail. Then it bounced back and swayed me forward.
It was a little like riding an ocean swell—which was an
interesting thought, since I had never been to the ocean,
swell or awful.

Threnody-dollarpede flowed over the irregularities in
the landscape, picking up speed. Soon she was traveling
as fast as a galloping ghost horse, and I was feeling seasick
from all the swaying. But we were making excellent time!

Around noon a shadow descended. I looked up and
saw a great bird circling. It was a roc and it looked
hungry—and the dollarpede was about the right size for
a snack. "Get under cover!" I cried, needing no special
intelligence to recognize danger like this.

Threnody scooted for a nearby fallen tree, hoping to
conceal herself under it. I dismounted, drew my sword,
and held my shield firmly before me. I stood beside the
fallen tree, facing out, while Threnody tried to get her
length squeezed under it.

But it seemed that a dollarpede was very hard to hide
from an alert predator. The roc quickly corrected course
and descended. Phew! Those birds are huge! I keep for-
getting how big they are, until I encounter another. The
giant wings covered all the sky, and the monstrous talons
came toward me like—like a roc's talons. There isn't
anything else to compare them to!

I had fought a roc before and knew we were over-
matched. But a barbarian warrior doesn't question the
odds, he just fights on. Especially when he's stupid. So

Crewel Lye                   257

as that foot came at me, I held up my shield and swung
with my sword.

My sword connected, cutting off the end of the claw.
Blood gushed out, and a few seconds later, when the
sensation reached the roc's head, there was an ear-
dazzling squawk that shook the clouds in their orbits.

Now I had the roc's attention—and a baleful attention
it was! The foot retreated, one claw snagging in a small
palm-tree and ripping it out, fingers, toes, and all. The
bird's head came down, the eyes peering at me. The beak
pecked at me, and it was the size of the snout of a good-
sized dragon. I was finished now!

But my shield came up and blocked the beak. I thought
the impact of the beak against the shield would break my
arm and knock me over and maybe drive the shield deep
into the ground, but there was no recoil at all. Odd!

The roc squawked again, and such was the blast of air
that the nearby saplings bent and their sap squirted out,
and the fallen tree rolled a turn or two back, exposing the
dollarpede. The roc peered at me again, straight down
from above, and I knew I would be squished like a bug
and perhaps spitted on bedrock below. There was fire in
those little roc orbs!

My shield came up once more, and this time I knew I
wasn't doing it. The thing was shifting itself, hauling my
arm along with it! It stopped over my head, horizontal,
blocking that plummeting beak.

The beak struck with a colossal clang—and I felt no
shock. But the bird bounced off as if rejected by a stone
mountain, its beak dented.

I was slow-witted, but now at last the truth managed
to wedge itself through my brain—this was the magic of
the shield! It was intended to combat the magic sword,
but it wasn't smart enough to distinguish between types
of attack, so it fended off whatever came at it. Self-
powered, it absorbed the fuD thrust, transmitting no shock
to me. As long as I held this shield, I could not be suc-
cessfully attacked!

The big bird, its beak bashed, came to a similar con-
clusion. It backed off, spread its wings, and launched itself




258 Crewel Lye

into the air. The downdraft flattened the nearby bushes
and tore a branch from an acom tree; the branch thudded
into the ground and acoms peppered us like hailstones.
But my shield protected me against those, too.

Threnody crawled out, somewhat bedraggled; her pap-
ery body did not stand up well to such high winds, and I
dreaded to think what rain might do to it. She was unable
to speak in this form, but I was sure she was pleased not
to have been gobbled by the roc. I remounted, and we
proceeded on north.

We stopped in midafternoon, back at the copse ofartis-
trees. Perhaps it was fitting that I brought the magic shield
back here to where the magic sword had attacked me.
Still, as my stupidity gradually abated—maybe my talent
was healing my brain of this malady, too—I became in-
creasingly uneasy about the direction of our travel. Castle
Roogna, after all, was the opposite way.

It took Threnody three hours to change back to her
normal form. First she went diffuse, then she sank to
human size, and finally she changed to human shape. "I'm
famished!" she exclaimed.

"Why not eat in dollarpede form?" I asked, concen-
trating so as to formulate my question properly, as it was
hard to handle full sentences in my present state of mind.
"Why so much trouble to change back?"

"My, you are improving!" she remarked, not entirely
pleased. "You're not half as stupid as you were last night."

"I know," I agreed, dully satisfied. She certainly was
pretty in this form. Had I been smarter, it might have
occurred to me that, since she could control her form,
she naturally made sure it was a good form. What woman,
given the opportunity to make herself more attractive,
would fail to exercise that power?

"I will answer your question," she said. "If I remained
in dollarpede form and mass, I would have to feed that
mass—and that would require a lot more food than my
natural body does. Also, dollarpedes feed on things like
Principal and Interest and Assets and Liabilities and Bud-
gets; since there aren't any of those around here, this one
would have to make do with bugs and moldy twigs and

Crewel Lye

259

things, and I don't happen to like such food much. So I
change back to human form so I can eat human food,
which I do prefer."

I didn't know what an Asset was, but I could see why
she wouldn't want to eat one. "But—"

"But how can a human meal feed the mass of a dol-
larpede? Because I only have to feed the form I'm in when
eating. If I shrank to gnat size, I could feed myself on a
gnat meal, then return to human size and not be hungry.
But that would take three more hours, and I'd be vul-
nerable all the time. Any bird could come by and swallow
me when I was in gnat form, and that would be the end
of me. So I don't like to go to the small sizes, and my
own form seems to be the best compromise."

All that was a bit more explanation than I could assim-
ilate at my present level of intelligence; I merely smiled
and nodded acquiescently. It was evident that Threnody
did know what she was doing. Besides, why should I
question such an excruciatingly beautiful woman? So what
if she had used her talent to reshape herself? It was a
lovely shaping.

She hardly had to work at fooling me; I was eager to
fool myself!

So we foraged and ate, then removed ourselves from
the immediate vicinity of the dead tree with the gnomes'
entrance and made camp for the night. Once again Thren-
ody cuddled up to me, after glancing around to make sure
there was no stork nearby.

"Uh," I said, trying to organize my thought. "We should
go south—"

"There is another reason to go north," she said quickly.
It was almost as if she had expected me to remember my
mission, and have a second thought about our direction
of travel, as my intelligence increased. "You said the en-
emy spells have been placed along your route, so that
when you go where you're going, you walk into them."
"Yes," I agreed. She had a good grasp of the situation.
"And most of those evil spells are a whole lot of trou-
ble," she continued. "Like the black sword, and the per-
sonality exchange—I realize that was the good spell that

260 Crewel Lye

hit us, but it was the same as the evil spell—and the
idiocy."

"Yes."

"Well, if you don't go where you're going, you won't
encounter the spells laid out along your route, will you?"

"Huh?"

"If we go to Castle Roogna, straight south, the next
spell is sitting there somewhere in our path, waiting for
you to meet it. Probably in the middle of the bask terri-
tory, so we'll really be in trouble. But if you don't go
there, you won't walk into that spell. That makes this a
better route, doesn't it?"

"Say, yes," I agreed, brightening. I was still too dull
to figure out the predestination angle. "But how do we
get to Castle Roogna, going north?"

She smiled in the dusk. "We go around the quicksand
desert to the north, then turn south and proceed without
further trouble."

"That's nice," I said, reassured.

"Still," she added, as if musingly, "it would be just as
easy to turn west and return to my house. Then you and
I could stay together forever."

It seemed to me that she had said something like that
the night before, but we had been interrupted by the stork.
Tonight I was a trifle smarter. "But what about my mis-
sion?" I asked.

"Let me show you how it can be with us," she said.
"Then you can decide about the mission."

"Well, uh—" I said uncertainly, torn between loyalty
and her beauty.

She wriggled, and her bare body came up against mine.
She put her lovely face to mine for a kiss. The conscious-
ness of my mission faded. I enfolded her in my arms and—

There was a noise.

Threnody stiffened. "Someone's near!" she whispered,
alarmed.

I felt for my sword and shield in the darkness. In a
moment I located the direction; the sound was in the area
of the gnome-tree. "The Gnobody Gnomes," I whispered.
"Out hunting."

Crewel Lye                      261

"I've seen enough of them to last me a lifetime!" she
said.

"I'll go out and slay them. With my sword and shield,
in my own body, it will be easy."

"Don't be stupid. That won't—"

"But I am stupid!" I protested.

She chuckled. "So you are, at the moment. But trust
me, Jordan; we don't need to attack the gnomes. They're
only out foraging for food and supplies, not looking for
us, and they're not such bad folk. If we kill the men, the
gnomides will suffer. All we have to do is lie quiet, and
they'll pass us by."

We lay quiet, though I wondered how folk who put
strangers in the smoking pot could be considered "not
bad," but I was not smart enough to figure that out. So
I was still, and she was right; the gnomes moved on by
and never knew we were there. But we had to bide some
time, and in due course I fell asleep. Whatever it was that
Threnody might have had in mind did not come to pass
between us that night. The gnomes had saved me from—
what?

In the morning we ate again. Threnody converted to
the dollarpede form, and we moved north. In the after-
noon we came to a huge chasm that neither of us remem-
bered. That was odd, because it was far too big to be
ignored. We stopped, and Threnody changed while I for-
aged and ate and made a hut from stray timbers. In the
sky to the south, we saw huge shapes wheeling; we knew
that the rocs were angry and were searching for us.

"We can't stay here and we can't go south again,"
Threnody said. "You fought valiantly to save me from
the big bird yesterday, and I am duly grateful, but if a
whole flock of them comes upon us, we'll be finished."

"But where can we go?" I asked, bewildered.

"I will assume another form, one that can traverse that
chasm," she said. "I'll start early, so I'll be ready by
dawn, and will carry you with me. Only-

"Yuh?" I asked.

"I'm not certain which way to go."




262 Crewel Lye

I was yet smarter than before. "To the east, so then
we can go south to Castle Roogna."

She sighed. "Yes, of course. But I don't want to go to
Castle Roogna; I want to go home—which means turning
west."

"Oh," I said, disappointed. "Well, good-bye, then."

She settled down next to me in our shelter. "Jordan,
I need you with me; the episode of the roc shows that.
You're powerful and brave and you're a good guy—even
when you're stupid. And I think you need me with you,
too, for my talent complements yours. We must travel
together, and I don't want to have an argument about the
direction at the brink of that chasm, with the rocs closing
in on us."

"Yes," I agreed. I could see how that would be awk-
ward. And she was so absolutely beautiful in the waning
light that I could not take my eyes off her.

"But you want to go to Castle Roogna, and I want to
go home. We have a fundamental conflict."

"I must complete my mission," I said, realizing that it
had been an error to say good-bye to her; I couldn't let
her go.

"Is therfe no way I can persuade you to come with
me?" she asked.

But I was still stupid enough to hang onto my mission.
"I must take you to Castle Roogna, or die in the attempt,"
I said. "Like the stork, I must deliver."

"Even though you can be with me forever, possessing
all that I have to offer, if you come with me now?" she
asked, nudging closer. "Even though you will lose me to
Magician Yin if you take me to Castle Roogna, and the
castle itself will fall?"

I felt miserable and every bit as stupid as I was. "Yes."

"You are too damn incorruptible for your own good,
barbarian!"

"Yes."

She turned her face away for a moment. Then she
turned back. "You are the man I want to marry, Jordan,
not Magician Yin! You are bold and strong and honest

Crewel Lye

263

and nice, while he is more devious than you can grasp.
Please, please, come with me!"

Now she had spoken openly of marriage between us.
Temptation took me like the wind from a storm. She was
all that I ever wanted in a woman—or so I thought at the
time—yet I could not see my way clear to do what she
asked. I was no thief—not even of love. I did not answer.

"I will show you!" she said, almost savagely. She half-
way flung herself on me, and hugged me to her, and kissed
me and stroked me. I had occupied her body, and knew
the difference in attitude between man and woman, but
now she was as aggressive as a man.

And I, like the idiot I was, did not think to ask why,
or to reflect on the unnaturalness of her attitude. Scarcely
any woman flings herself on a man she doesn't plan to
marry. But because I was stupid, and she had timed her
effort with that stupidity in mind, I lacked the proper
suspicion. I was overwhelmed by her urgency. I reacted
as she intended me to and I knew that I loved her, ab-
solutely and eternally, whatever else might come.
Greater folly has no man than this.

Early in the morning, before dawn, she woke me. "Jor-
dan, I must begin my change," she said. "I love you. Do
you love me?"

I was smarter than I had been—but that no longer
mattered. "Yes," I said.

"Will you come with me?"

My heart felt as if it were cracking in two. "No."

"There is no way I can turn you from the course you
have set?"

"No."

She sighed. "Then I must go with you, though it be
disaster for us both."

So I had won. Why did I feel so miserable?
She proceeded to change, stage by stage, and three
hours later, as dawn peeked shyly into the gloomy chasm,
she was ready. She had become a giant snail, with a shell
the size of a small house.

I climbed up on the shell, keeping the shield and the

264

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Crewel Lye

265

two swords tied to me, and took firm hold of the corru-
gations. The bag with the few remaining spells dangled
from my waist. Nothing could dislodge me—I hoped.

The snail crawled forward toward the chasm. It quested
along the lip until it found a rounded part, then slid over
that and down onto the face of the cliff itself.

Now I had to hold on tight! The depth of the chasm
yawned beneath us awesomely; if I fell, I would be smashed
to death on the rock below—and this time had no ghost
horse to scrape up the pieces. If Threnody's sticky under-
surface became unstuck, she, too, would fall—with no
hope at all of revival. I could understand why she did not
want any arguments about direction at this stage. I be-
came nervous.

But her surface held, and we slid slowly down into the
chasm and east along its face. If she had decided to turn
about and go west, I could not have stopped her, but she
had agreed to go east and she was doing it. I knew now
that I had never had any chance to bring this creature to
Castle Roogna without her acquiescence. She had used
love to persuade me to go her way; instead it had per-
suaded her to go my way. Or so I believed then, in my
idiocy.

I heard a noise and looked down. Far below, I saw a
huge, six-legged dragon pacing us, evidently hoping we
would fall. It was so eager for our flesh that puffs of steam
drifted up from it.

Then I heard another noise and looked up—and saw
a little roc. The big birds had found us at last!

The roc swooped down, and I knew doom was upon
us, for even a little roc is a giant creature. I hated being
helpless before this predator; I felt the way I had when I
occupied Threnody's body and faced the griffin.

Something nagged the slow molasses of my brain. Didn't
griffins and rocs have something in common? Some weak-
ness, or at least some kind of fmickiness? How had I
stopped the griffin?

Desperation once again lent me a stupid kind of genius.
"Yuck!" I cried, making a grotesque face. Rocs were big,

but their eyesight and hearing were excellent. "This snail
tastes awful. Gunky! Putrid! It's just a shell full of pus!"

It was a little roc; did it understand what I was saying?
Would it be fooled? A mature one might be too canny,
but...

The roc veered off, the wind from its wings almost
tearing us off the wall. We clung, sliding down help-
lessly—and the bird departed. My ploy had worked! Some
snails did taste bad, so maybe the roc had been ready to
believe. Actually, those birds, being roc-headed, weren't
the smartest creatures in Xanth. But a young roc surely
tried eating anything that moved, at first, so had many
bad experiences and would be eager to avoid more of
them. Maybe this one had once gulped a shell full of pus.

Threnody managed to skid to a halt on the wall, then
continued her slow slide to the east, and in due course
she crossed over the lip of the chasm and onto level land.
The quicksand was behind; now we could safely proceed
south.

I let go of the shell, but my arms were locked into
position from the long clutch and had to be unkinked joint
by joint. Threnody was so tired she just slumped in her
shell. But we had made it.

Ahead, had I but known, was the cruel lie.

Chapter 15. Cruel Lie

After a while Threnody changed back to her
human form, looking somewhat wasted. I fetched her food
and water, and she kissed me, and we rested there a time,
just appreciating each other's company.

"A shell full of pus?" she asked wryly.

"Well, it worked," I said, embarrassed.




Crewel Lye

266

"I would never have forgiven you if it hadn't worked,"
she said. "Well, let's get moving again."

"But you are tired. Let me carry you, now. Change to
something small."

She smiled. "I'll simply diffuse; that will take less time."

She did so. When she was smoky-thin, looking indeed
like the demoness she derived from, she put her vaporous
arms around me, and I marched south, carrying her along
with me without effort. When a passing wyvem thought
to take a bite of us. Threnody simply floated up and
breathed, "Booo!" and the poor creature took off as if it
had seen a ghost. I wasn't worried anyway; my sword
and shield and stupidity—the "Three S's," as Threnody
put it—made me practically invulnerable to attack. But
it was true that our two talents complemented each other,
making safe travel possible and easy. We were a good
team.

We made excellent progress that day and camped for
the night not far from Castle Roogna. Threnody densified,
resuming her natural and lovely solidity, and embraced
me. "This may be our last night together, Jordan," she
said soberly.

"We must tell Magician Yin what we feel," I said.
"Maybe he won't want to marry you then. Some men are
very choosy about winning a lady's love for themselves."

"That thought had crossed my mind," she confessed.
"When you deliver me there, Yin will win, and be (he
next King of Xanth, and surely he will be good for the
land. But if he rejects me, and sends me away, the castle
will not fall, and I can be yours. But—"

"But?" I asked. The plan seemed quite feasible to me.

"But there is also Yang," she said reluctantly. "Yang
is evil. He cares nothing for anything decent, including
the fact that I now belong to another man; he might choose
to take me for that reason."

"But you don't want to go with Yang!" I protested.

"Jordan, I may not have much choice." She kissed me
again, lingeringly. "You have seen the power of his spells.
No ordinary person can stand against the power of a Ma-
gician, good or evil; that's why a Magician is always King.

Crewel Lye                    267

If you bring me near Castle Roogna, but not all the way
there, then Yang will win and be King, and he, more than
Yin, may want the aspect of legitimacy conferred by mar-
riage to the daughter of the prior King. Sometimes the
least worthy folk crave legitimacy the most. I will no
longer be able to threaten to throw myself into the—the—
whatever; I will not be able to escape." She took me by
the hand and gazed into my eyes. "But whatever happens,
Jordan, remember that I love you."

"And I love you!" I said.

Then she began singing, in her low, sad way, and
her voice was so eerily beautiful that it brought tears to
my eyes. As I listened to her, it seemed that some terrible
tragedy was in the offing. But I was too dull to grasp what
that could be, or to wonder how she could know what
was to come.

"I'm sorry I did not let you bring your lute," I told
her.

She paused to put her fair hand on mine. "I forgive
you, Jordan." There were tears in her eyes, too.

In the morning we set out for Castle Roogna on foot,
as we were. It was not that far, and Threnody wanted
there to be no doubt about her identity so that there could
be no misunderstanding as to the success of my mission.
We held hands, and it was a sad rather than a joyous
occasion. But what could I do? A good barbarian always
completes his mission.

We saw the highest spire of the old castle, poking above
the trees to the south. Threnody paused to kiss me. "I
love you, Jordan," she said again. I, total fool, believed
her. Yet even now, seeing it in the picture of the tapestry,
I find it hard to believe that she could have been false;

everything about her signaled the sorrow of love about
to be lost. Almost, I wish—but of course, I am not now
the idiot I was then. Experience has been an exceedingly
cruel teacher.

We came to the ring of gnarled old trees surrounding
the castle. They still didn't like me. Branches descended
to bar our progress. I drew my sword. "I told you before,




268 Crewel Lye

trees, that I'd lop off any branch opposing me," I said.
"I have to deliver this object to the castle, and that I shall
do. Now clear the way!"

But this time they did not yield the right of way. Angry,
I hacked at the branches, making good my threat, and
the afflicted trees groaned woodenly with the pain and
dripped colored sap, but still would not give over. They
were stupidly loyal to their perceived cause, as was I.

"They know," Threnody said. "They remember the
curse of my return. They don't care who is to be King of
Xanth; they merely protect the castle from ruin. Jordan,
believe me, only tragedy can come of this delivery."

"I promised to deliver you, and I will," I grunted, hack-
ing away.

She shook her head with resignation. "If only your
loyalty were rightly fixed, what a hero you would be!"

I didn't know what she meant by that, so I ignored it.
Forcing a way through the trees took time, but I was
barbarianishly determined, and I cleared a channel through
the resistant forest. We emerged to the inner orchard,
with its marvelous array of fruits and nuts.

I was hungry after my exertion, so I reached for a big
red apple—and it jerked away. I blinked, then reached
for another—and it, too, avoided me.

"Now this is pushing it!" I snapped, not so dull as not
to realize I was being snubbed. "I'm going to have some
fruit, or do some cutting here!" I walked around the tree,
stalking the evasive fruit.

A cherry dropped near me from a neighboring cherry
tree. The thing exploded as it touched the ground, blasting
dirt at my legs. I jumped away—and almost collided with
a pineapple tree. "Look out!" Threnody cried.

A pineapple dropped, but I managed to reach out and
catch it and hurl it away before it detonated. The explo-
sion shook the orchard, and fruits dropped all around us.
Several more cherries went off around me, but my shield
alertly blocked off the shrapnel of juice and cherry pits.
"They know," Threnody repeated.

I shook my sword at the cherry tree, but dared not try
to chop it down, because the cherries would have blown

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269

me to bits. In Mundania it may be possible to chop down
cherry trees, but not in Xanth. And as for pineapples—
I have heard, but naturally do not believe, that they don't
even grow on trees in Mundania; they supposedly grow
directly from the ground, one pineapple to a plant. Lu-
dicrous! Next thing we'll be expected to believe is that
Mundane cherries and pineapples don't explode.

We went on to the plain surrounding the castle. There
stood a truly motley assembly: dozens of zombies. Dirt
sifted from their sodden shoulders, showing that they had
recently disinterred themselves. Gobbets of rotten flesh
festooned their spindly bones. Each skull stared out with
maggoty sockets.

"The zombies rise when Castle Roogna is threatened,"
Threnody said. "They know that the moment I set foot
in the castle, it will fall. I remember, when I was a girl,
a rogue dragon came, and the zombies marched against
it. The creature was covered with slime and rot before it
gave up the attempt. Are you sure you want to—"

"I have a mission," I said sullenly. I may have men-
tioned the oinkheadedness of barbarians, particularly stu-
pid ones. I drew my sword and held my magic shield high
and marched into the awful throng.

The zombies were no cowards; I'll say that for them!
They threw themselves on me as if not caring for their
own lives at all. My shield moved about, fending them
off, and my sword hacked off arms, legs, and heads with
abandon. Pieces of zombie soon littered the landscape.
Threnody had to use the almost empty bag of spells to
shield herself from flying rot; for some reason, she didn't
seem to like getting it in her hair or down her front or in
her slippers. Women do tend to be fussy at times. Finally
the last of the zombies had been cut to grotesque pieces,
and the way was clear to the castle.

I took Threnody by the hand and led her onward. She
remained reluctant, but did not resist.

We came to the moat. The drawbridge was up, and
the moat monsters were on full alert, in contrast to their
prior attitude. Well, I had fought monsters before.

I needed to get that drawbridge lowered so Threnody




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271

could cross. I wasn't going to drag her through the moat!
Then she would be at Castle Roogna, and my mission
would be successfully accomplished, despite all Yang's
machinations. Then, and only then, could I relax. Perhaps
I would recover Threnody; perhaps not. Either way, it
would be done.

"Wait here," I told her. Then I jumped down into the
moat. Naturally the nearest monster pounced on me, its
huge fangs spearing for my head.

My shield hefted up to intercept the strike, and the
fangs clamped down onto it. There the monster's maw
froze, two fangs projecting down inside the shield, drip-
ping saliva, while the eyes of the monster stared at me,
startled. I lifted my trusty sword and brought the blade
down, cutting off the end of the snout, including the fangs.
The monster gave a squeal of pain and jerked back, blood
and spittle flying. I suspect it was none too pleased. Mon-
ster-fighting can be a messy business at times.

"Look, monster," I said. "I've got a job to do, same
as you do. I'm crossing this moat and letting down the
drawbridge. I'm a barbarian warrior, none too smart at
the moment, and cutting up monsters is my profession.
Either you can let me operate in peace, or you can get
yourself hacked to pieces. It's your choice."

And I waded on across the clogged waterway without
waiting for the monster's response. That's the way you
have to deal with monsters—firmly and fairly.

The monster considered. It was an old one, long past
its prime, unable to mount the savagery of its youth, and
I'd given it a painful wound. It probably hadn't gulped
down a maiden in years. By the time it decided to attack
again, I was across.

I climbed to the drawbridge mechanism. No one was
there; this castle no longer had human guards, which was
part of its problem. There was only so much that trees
and zombies and monsters could do, without competent
human support. Modern battle is an integrated matter,
each aspect dependent on the others. Had the human
element been present, I would not have been able to storm
Castle Roogna, an edifice that had withstood attack for

four hundred years. When Magician Yin became King,
surely he would upgrade the defenses, assuming the castle
was still standing. I cranked the chain and lowered the
bridge until it fell into place with a heavy thunk.

I walked out on it. "Now you can cross," I called to
Threnody.

She approached reluctantly, and I went to meet her.
Just this short distance across the moat, and it would be
done.

"Maybe it will count if I don't actually get off the bridge
and touch the castle itself," Threnody said. "If my father
the King sees that you have completed your mission."

"Maybe so," I agreed. I really didn't want Castle Roogna
to fall.

Threnody paused, picking up something at the edge of
the planking. "What's this?" she asked. "It looks like—"

I reached for it. It was a small black ball. As I took it
in my hand, I saw its other side. There were two squarish
sockets and a grinning set of teeth.

"That's the black skull!" I exclaimed, trying to throw
it away.

Too late. The evil skull flashed—and I fell dead.

"Jordan!" Threnody cried as I dropped from the edge
of the bridge to the ground beyond the moat. She tried
to catch me, but there was nothing she could do for me;

I was already deceased. There was the counterspell in the
bag, but we didn't know which one that was, and only I
could invoke it—and as a dead man, I couldn't even do
that. The evil spell had operated much more rapidly than
it was supposed to.

A figure appeared across the moat, at the castle gate.
It was Magician Yin. "So you have come to me at last,
Princess Threnody," he said. "The barbarian has done
good service."

She stood frozen for a moment, staring at him. "The
mission is not yet complete," she said.

"But you can step right across and make it complete,"
Yin pointed out.

"And Castle Roogna will fall," she said disdainfully.




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Crewel Lye

273

"But your father wishes this union to be," Yin re-
minded her. "We can build another castle."

"Not like this one!"

"Come, lovely woman," Yin pleaded. "The ignorant
barbarian has given his life to bring you this far. Would
you cause that sacrifice to be in vain?"

"Pah!" Threnody exclaimed. "I am demon-spawned; I
have no conscience. All I want is to spare the castle where
I grew up, the one place where I was happy. Now I shall
live my own life. You would not let me do that, once you
have power. Magician Yin."

"Ah—so the maiden plans to run away with the bar-
barian when he revives."

Had 1 been alive then, I would have been startled by
that; I had thought Yin did not know about my talent.
But of course Magicians tend to know more than they let
on; it's part of their power.

"Hardly, Magician! This oaf lives only to complete his
mission—to bring me to you, Yin. I tried to seduce him
away from that, but the fool would not be swayed. Only
by being rid of him can I be rid of you."

"But you will never be rid of him. Princess, since he
can not be killed. That was my little ace in the hole against
Yang's machinations. So you might as well cross the moat
and marry me."

"I shall be rid of him—and you!" she exclaimed. "I
know how to keep the barbarian dead!" And she took my
sword and struck at my body. The magic shield tried to
lift itself to block the attack, but its spell was no longer ,
new, and I was dead, so it couldn't do much. In a moment
she hacked off my shield arm, and the shield was finished.

Then she hacked off my other limbs, and my head, and
cut my torso into two chunks. I looked like a dismembered
zombie, except that there was a good deal more blood
spread about. "This moron will never bother me again!"
she gasped, spearing my staring head on the point and
carrying it into the orchard.

Yin stood, watching her go. "Then you are determined
not to let the barbarian's mission be complete?" he called
after her.

"Absolutely!" she called back as she disappeared among
the fruit trees.

Time passed. Then she returned to spear another chunk
of my body. "And you refuse to cross over and marry
me?" Yin asked, as if this were a routine matter.

"You got it. Magician," she agreed, hauling the second
chunk away in a different direction.

When she returned again, Yin asked: "Despite the
wishes of your dying father?"

"If my father knew the truth, he would repent those
wishes." She marched away in a new direction with the
third chunk.

Next time she appeared, Yin asked: "Don't you know
that if I am not King, my evil brother will be King in-
stead?"

"Of course I know it!" she exclaimed. "What care I
for your politics?" She took the fourth part of me away
in a new direction.

When she returned yet again, Yin said: "Don't you
realize that if you do not marry me, you must marry
Magician Yang?"

"Maybe Yang won't want me. But if he does, he won't
make me live at Castle Roogna," she said, spearing a fifth
chunk and toting it away.

Soon she was back again, for the next-to-the-last chunk.
"What do you care for Magician Yang?" Yin demanded.

Threnody paused in her labor. "Well, if you want it
straight, I am demon-spawn. I prefer evil to good—and
Yang is evil." She hauled the chunk away.

"That isn't what you told the barbarian," Yin said when
she returned for the final chunk.

"I told the barbarian I was a liar. That much was true."
She carried away the seventh piece of me.

When she returned, Yin tried yet once more. "The
barbarian is finished, but you could still cross over to me.
I ask you, daughter of the King, one last time—"

"Oh, stop this charade!" she exclaimed, picking up my
magic shield and dumping it into the moat. Then she tossed
my sword in after it. "Do you think I don't know your
secret?"




274 Crewel Lye

"Secret, Princess?"

"That Yin is merely the white-magic side, and Yang
the black-magic side, of the same person. You are not
contesting to see which Magician shall be King; you are
deciding which facet of your personality will dominate.
Since that decision turns out to be mine to make, I am
choosing—and I choose Yang. Come to me, you evil
creature, for I shall not come to you! The price of me is
to turn your back forever on Castle Roogna."

"Then so I shall!" Yin said. He turned about, his cloak
flaring—and as he turned, his color changed, and he be-
came the biack-robed Yang. He strode across the draw-
bridge and took Threnody's hand. "You have done well,
evil creature!" he told her. "Even to seducing the bar-
barian, for you know I could not touch a pristine woman."

"Only Yin could do that," she agreed, kissing him.
"The placement of that last spell was beautiful. The oaf
never suspected the drawbridge itself!"

"Thank you. You realize, of course, that I was testing
you? I feared you might actually have some feeling for
that barbarian, though I know what a consummate actress
you are. So I arranged to—"

"I do have some feeling for him," she said. "Contempt!
He was a fool even before your idiocy spell hit him. And
there was another stroke of genius—mixing up Yin's
spells! Even so, it was uncomfortably close, for the bar-
barian was the most oinkheadedly determined fool I've
ever seen."

"A close contest is more tantalizing," Yang said. "I
knew I would win; but for the sake of appearances, I
preferred the outcome to seem in doubt."

"Well, Evil Magician, you will be King now. So take
me away from here and do what you will with me."

"I am King now. Your father died yesterday."

Threnody stiffened. If she had cared for anything at
all, it was for her father. "Then I could have killed the
barbarian last night, and my father would not have known!
Why did you torture me like that?"

"It is my nature," Yang said. "As it is yours. Together,
we have betrayed all that is decent in Xanth."

Crewel Lye                    275

She smiled. "Why, so we have!"

"And now we shall neglect the interests of Xanth com-
pletely, letting Castle Roogna go to ruin in its own fashion.
I shall devote myself to Grafting spells of every type, and
who knows what mischief they may do in the course of
future centuries as they are discovered, while you—"

"While I will assume whatever strange forms you wish,
for your sinister pleasure," Threnody finished.

Together, they walked away from the castle, their cruel
lie complete at last.

Of course, I was dead, so I was no longer much con-
cerned with this. But my ghost was present at the spot
where I had died, and my ghost was appalled at this evi-
dence of the betrayal of myself and Xanth that Threnody
had wrought. All the time she had been collaborating with
the Evil Magician, plotting to—

But the Evil Magician and the Good Magician were
one and the same! And Threnody had known this! And
chosen the Evil aspect to go with! All the while playing
up to me, the ignorant barbarian fool! When I had not
failed to bring her back to Castle Roogna, she had had to
come into the open about it. Why had I been so blind?

Why, indeed! They had chosen me for this very quality!
If my course for the mission had been predestined, so
had my course before it, bringing me to Castle Roogna
at precisely the time they needed such a fool. How could
a mere barbarian comprehend the intricacies of civilized
treachery? Perhaps King Gromden, a good man, had sus-
pected and tried to tell me, but his illness had prevented
him. That very illness might have been sent by a spell
from one of the aspirants to the throne, since Yin-Yang
had free access to Castle Roogna. It would have been
better had I never entered the picture, for I had been the
unwitting tool of their treachery. I, as much as Threnody,
was responsible for the demise of Castle Roogna as the
center of the human government of Xanth, and for the

centuries of the decline that followed. How great was my
guilt!




276 Crewel Lye

But it was done, and I was helpless to undo it. All I
could do was watch.

A few hours after my death, Pook and Peek arrived
on the scene. Pook came and sniffed the mostly empty
bag of spells Threnody had dropped on the bank of the
moat and forgotten. He knew I had been there and that
I had been betrayed by the cruelestoflies. He had tried
to warn me, to discourage me; he had refused to aid me
in my folly. But I had pursued it anyway, bewitched by
foolish love, and met my ordained fate. Now Pook could
do nothing; he didn't know where evil Threnody had bur-
ied my pieces, and lacked the means to dig them up be-
sides. Nobody knew but her, and she would never tell.
Truly, she had sealed my fate!

Disconsolately, Pook picked up the limp bag of spells
with his teeth, craned his head around to tuck it in amidst
his chains so that he could carry it as a memento, then
departed. Peek went with him, sharing his melancholy
with her beautiful, moist brown eyes. She was an animal;

she did not deceive or betray her companion the way a
human woman could.

And so I was dead and dead I remained. Evil Threnody
had seen to that! My ghost moved into Castle Roogna,
as that was the only building within range, and ghosts do
prefer a structure to haunt. I met the other ghosts there
and learned their sad stories. One was Millie the Maid,
who had been killed by a jealous rival for the Magician
she loved. The others each had his or her life history, as
tragic or ironic as mine. Oh, we shared common heritage
of folly and grief, we ghosts of the castle! And so we
remained over the centuries, while the castle stood idle.

For Magician Yang, the evil aspect of the man, indeed
cared nothing for Castle Roogna or the welfare of Xanth.
He moved back to his home village and made his nefarious
spells, for that was his chief entertainment. In truth, most
of his spells were neutral, for there is no real good or evil
in a given spell. Only in its actual use does it become
good or evil. Ail the spells and enchanted objects in Xanth
date from his reign, including the magic weapons of the
Castle Roogna arsenal, made before he left. Some of those

Crewel Lye                    277

spells, like the forget-speli on the Gap Chasm, date from
before his time, yet he made them, too; I don't know how
that was arranged. He was a great Magician, but an evil
man. Those spells proliferated, and Xanth declined, be-
cause the spells were not used in any organized service
of man. They were just scattered about the kingdom,
whimsically, to do what mischief they might in ignorant
hands. We ghosts had news of outside events only oc-
casionally, when some traveling spook or wraith passed
through; we ourselves were unable to leave the castle
premises. So this is sketchy. But in the course of cen-
turies, we did catch up on the major items.

Eventually Magician Yang died—but the next King of
Xanth did not return to Castle Roogna to reign. It seemed
it had become fashionable for Kings to remain in their
home villages. There was no longer a centralized govern-
ment in Xanth. The Mundane Waves washed freely over
Xanth. It was the dark age—all because of Threnody's
cruel lie. She had sought to preserve Castle Roogna from
falling, whatever the cost, but it had fallen anyway, fig-
uratively—and who is to say that was not the real nature
of the curse?

Yet perhaps she was not directly to blame for the evil
times that came to all Xanth, for the tides of men are slow
and subtle, and answer to no isolated influences. Maybe
Xanth was doomed, anyway, and would have suffered
some other calamity if not this one. Threnody had not
chosen to be cursed, or even to be delivered by the stork.
Maybe it had really started with the demoness who had
humiliated King Gromden and succeeded in her mischief
beyond her most infernal expectations.

Still, this does not excuse me. I, utter fool, had helped
Threnody to do it—by trusting her when I knew she was
untrustworthy and loving her when I should have known
that the spawn of a demon could not truly love in return,
whatever she might say. She had done to me what her
mother had done to her father, and together, they had
ruined more lives than anyone can know. My pain was
all the greater because I had loved her, however foolishly.
Now it was hate—but still my emotion for her, whether




278                     Crewel Lye

positive or negative, dominated my tenuous existence as
a ghost. I had been a fool in life; I remained a fool in
death. But what was to be expected of a barbarian lout?

One thing came to bother me increasingly in my spirit
existence—Elsie, the girl I had left behind in Fen Village.
I had promised to return to her when my adventure was
done—and after I had learned the folly of loving demon-
spawn, I would have been glad to settle down with a
decent girl. But I could not; I was dead. If I had known
more of the true situation with Magician Yin-Yang and
Threnody, I would have set her on the drawbridge, said,
"Here you are; cross or not, as you see fit," and departed
for home, to be with Elsie, a genuinely decent young
woman who would never have betrayed me. But I hadn't
known, so I had died, and now could not know how Elsie
fared. Was she waiting for me throughout her life, for a
promise never to be fulfilled? How cruel a lie had I told
her7 In this I perceived a certain justice to my own fate.
I had been served as I had served another person. I had
perhaps ruined a fine girl and now I was ruined myself.
The two griefs merged and fused in my being; as time
passed, I tended to forget the more recent horror in favor
of the earlier one, perhaps because the guilt of all Xanth
was not associated there.

Yet it was not all bad for me, and perhaps not for
Xanth. With the decline of human power, the several
creature kingdoms strengthened, and mankind had to learn
to deal with animals as equals. Centaurs in particular had
been treated mainly as beasts of burden and laborers; now
they formed an island kingdom of their own and became
quite civilized. I like to think that the elven tribes pros-
pered and that Bluebell's descendants exist today, be-
cause of the diminished interference of human folk.

The other ghosts of the castle were decent sorts, very
supportive; they had been through their fatal experiences
and understood exactly how that felt. They regarded
themselves as keepers of the castle, preserving it for that
day when a King would return to rule Xanth properly and
usher in a new golden age of man. Castle Roogna itself
had a spirit; it kept itself whole, and its ambience extended

Crewel lye                    279

out through the surrounding orchards and trees. Now I
understood why the trees had fought me; they had known
that my presence meant doom to the castle, whichever
way my mission turned out.

As a ghost, I ranged the whole region, apologizing to
every tree and zombie I had injured with my sword, and
to the old moat monster, too. "I'm very sorry, and I won't
do it again," I promised. But that was empty; I couldn't
do it again. Still, they accepted my penitence, knowing
the ignorance and frailties of the mortal condition, and I
became one with the castle. An empty promise is still a
promise; I have tried in whatever way I can to help Castle
Roogna, and perhaps I succeeded when the King Mare
needed help to save it from occupation by the evil Horse-
man. That can hardly make up for the evil I did originally,
but it's a beginning.

In a couple of years a new ghost appeared. She was
Renee, whom you have met. She was bewildered by her
abrupt death, though it had been suicide. People who die
by their own hands often don't realize quite what they
are getting into. She had come to the deserted castle to
end her misery and had not expected to retain awareness
in this form. She had suffered an unhappy marriage, not
being able to marry her true love, and had finally taken
this way out. She reminded me poignantly of Elsie, though
I ardently hoped I had not driven Elsie into such a situ-
ation by my defection.

I had been the youngest ghost, in terms of the period
of my spirit's existence; now Renee was. I was glad to
help her and show her the ghostly ropes, and she was
very appreciative. This helped me forget my own distress,
and I trust it helped her, too. It is a truth of death as well
as of life that the surest amelioration of one's own misery
is to be obtained by helping another person.

In time—much time, for the emotions of ghosts are as
diffuse as their physical essences—this relationship
evolved into love. Now Threnody was but a distant mem-
ory; Renee was the one I existed for. In death I had found
my life's partner, and I knew she felt the same—though
it was too late for us even before we met.




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281

Eventually King Trent came to Castle Roogna and
brought the monarchy back to its rightful seat. Once again
Xanth flourished, and the dark age was behind. We are
now some thirty years into the new age, and man pros-
pers, but we ghosts remain. For our stories are not yet
finished, and perhaps will never be.

Chapter 16. Caustic Truth

And that," Jordan the Ghost concluded, "is
my story, sad as it may be. I was an ignorant barbarian
fool and I paid the price. Yet today I have happiness of
a sort, for I have seen the dark age of Xanth end at last
and I love Renee. And now I have the memory of my
living history, thanks to the crewel lye you used to clarify
the tapestry. I thank you, little Princess, though not all
of my memories are pleasant."

Ivy considered. She had found the ghost's tale to be
more of a narrative than anticipated, with some aspects
that were a trifle awkward for a girl of five to comprehend.
It had granted her the wish she had made on a starfish:

to know the origin of the forget-spell on the Gap. A certain
mystery remained about that, since that spell had been
applied to the Gap long before Magician Yin-Yang lived,
but still, it was an answer. Now she wondered what the
big deal was about summoning the stork; wasn't it just a
matter of kissing? Her parents tended to get evasive when
her questions about such points became too pointed, and
she had the suspicion that Jordan would be no more can-
did. Still, it was worth a try. "Some things have changed,"
she said.

"Oh?"

"We live in modem times. Storks no longer deliver
babies directly to the mothers."

"They don't?" Jordan asked as if amused. That was
an annoying trait adults had. "I must be out of touch."

"Yes. Today the storks deposit the bundles under cab-
bage leaves. Probably it saves them time. If you had done
that with the ogret, you wouldn't have had to worry about
the ogre and ogress."

"That must be why the storks changed it," Jordan
agreed.

"That's where my mother found dumb Dolph, my pid-
dling baby brother."

"That's no way to speak of him," Jordan said.

"Well, he is piddling," she insisted stoutly. "They have
to keep a diaper on him all the time, and keep changing
it. I'm sure it's more trouble than he's worth."

"There is that," the ghost agreed.

Now came the clincher. "I don't quite understand this
business about summoning storks anyway," Ivy said pet-
ulantly. "Exactly how is that done?"

"Um, I forget," Jordan said awkwardly.

"Well, let's zero in on one of those scenes in the tap-
estry and enlarge the detail. That should refresh your
memory." Ivy was very practical about satisfying her cu-
riosity.

"I'm sure that's not necessary," Jordan said quickly.
"It's a very dull business."

"How do you know, if you don't remember?"

"Well, I just remember that it probably wouldn't in-
terest you. Children don't do it, you see." But the ghost
had turned a shade or two whiter than he had been.

There was no question about it; Jordan was part of the
Adult Conspiracy. There was some secret here that all
grown-ups wanted to keep from all children. "Let' s go back
to the beginning," Ivy said. "Where you and Elsie—"

"Ah, Elsie," the ghost said sadly. "I'd like to know
how she survived."

"Uh, yes," Ivy agreed, curious about that, too. So
when the tapestry zeroed in on Elsie, just after Jordan
had left her, she followed the woman forward instead of




283

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283

backward. Ivy, like Jordan, had her weaknesses; curiosity
tended to overcome her common sense. What had hap-
pened to Elsie?

As it turned out, Elsie did not grieve long. A handsome
farmer began paying attention to her the moment Jordan
left; as time passed, without Jordan's return, her interest
turned to the farmer. In due course she married him, and
the stork delivered a baby, but the lights were always out
when the couple set about signaling the stork, so Ivy still
was unenlightened.

"That's a relief!" Jordan exclaimed.

"What?" Ivy demanded irately.

"To learn that I didn't ruin Elsie after all," the ghost
said. "Now I don't have to feel guilty any more. She was
better off without me. I was just a passing fling for her,
as she was for me."

"Oh." Now Ivy's full attention returned to Jordan.
"Your magic talent—could you revive today, if your bones
were put back together?"

The ghost considered. "I don't know. It's been a long
time—and anyway, I don't know where my parts are
buried, so they can't be put together."

"I know where they are," a faint voice said behind
him.

Jordan turned. "Oh—Renee! I didn't know you were
there!"

The female ghost took better form. Ivy could see that
she must have been very pretty in her life. "I—looked
for them, and the trees showed me," Renee said.

"Why did you do that?" Jordan asked, perplexed.

"Because I love you."

Jordan was abashed. "I never thought to look for your
bones! I must not love you as much as you love me!"

"It's all right," Renee said comfortingly. "I am notas
lovable as you are, Jordan."

Ivy pounced on the information. "Take me to Jordan's
bones!" she exclaimed. "I'm going to put them together,
so he can live again!"

"But it might not work," Jordan protested.

"Nonsense!" Ivy said with the certainty only a child

her age could muster. "You can do it if you try." She
turned to Renee. "Show me!"

Obediently, Renee led the way out of the castle and
across the moat and into the orchard. "The head is here,
under the roots of this skullery tree.".She indicated the
tree, which was hung with pots and kettles and other
kitchen utensils. Indeed, there did seem to be skull de-
signs on the utensils. This location was obvious, now that
attention had been called to it.

"We'll have to dig it out," Ivy said, eying the firm turf
beneath the tree.

The two ghosts spread their foggy hands. "We are un-
able to affect material things," Jordan said. "I could not
even invoke the pictures of the tapestry myself; only a
living, solid creature can do that, and not all of them."

Ivy looked at her cute little hands. She considered the
trouble she would be in if she got them and her dress
messed up. "I'll get help," she decided.

"Help?" Jordan asked. "Any adult is likely to ask awk-
ward questions."

"Don't I know it! That's the one thing adults are really
good at." She glanced at the ghost. "Except maybe bar-
barians."

"Thank you," Jordan said wryly.

"Perhaps the little dragon—" Renee murmured.

Ivy brightened. She put two fingers into her mouth and
made a piercing whistle.

There was a stir from the far side of the castle. In a
moment Stanley came steaming along. He whomped up
to Ivy expectantly.

Ivy pointed to the ground. "There is a skull under here.
Sniff!"

Stanley sniffed. In a moment he located it. He indicated
the spot with a jet of steam.

"Dig it out—carefully," Ivy ordered.

Stanley was glad to cooperate. He steamed the ground,
making it soft, then dug with his front claws. Soon he
sniffed again, steamed the dirt sodden, and used his teeth
to dig out the dirty skull.

"Oh, you're so good at that!" Ivy exclaimed, stretching




284

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285

her arms around Stanley's neck for a hug. She had per-
fected the technique of female flattery by watching her
mother handle her father. It certainly worked on Stanley;

he blushed bright green with pleasure.

Soon they steamed the skull clean and white, and Ivy
carried it to the next location. Renee showed them to a
shoe-tree, with boys' and men's shoes in every stage of
growth. Sure enough, down under the roots, its foot nes-
tled in a buried hiking shoe, was one of Jordan's skeletal
legs. Stanley dug it out carefully and steamed it clean.

This growing mass of bones was getting complicated
for Ivy to carry, so they made a cache of bones under a
parasol tree, out of sight of the castle. Ivy didn't want
any adult telling her no! Adults were all too prone to say
no, apparently for no reason other than sinister pleasure
in uttering the syllable.

The other leg was under a female shoe-tree, wearing
a ragged lady-slipper; no one would have thought to look
for it there! Stanley was enjoying this; he liked finding
things, though he was a little miffed about not being al-
lowed to chew up the bones once he found them. But he
was willing to settle for Ivy's hugs instead. "Males have
always been fools about that sort of thing," Jordan mut-
tered reminiscently.

The arms were beneath separate arms-trees, nestled
among the old rusted swords, maces, and spears that had
been dropped unharvested in bygone years. One hand still
held the sword recovered from the Knight, which re-
mained stainlessly shiny. "Odd that she should have taken
the trouble to put that sword in my hand," Jordan mused.
"As if I died fighting. Why should she bother?" Jordan's
own sword, of course, had been used by the evil Threnody
to bury the chunks of him; there was no telling where that
was now, if it hadn't rusted away entirely. It had been a
good sword, but not that good.

The upper section of the torso was buried beneath a
chest-nut tree. The skeletal rib cage was packed in a chest:

another retrospectively obvious location. Threnody had
evidently taken a lot of care in hiding each piece in a
region so fitting that no one would think of it. "She must

have been afraid that if any piece of me were found,
someone would realize where the others were," Jordan
said, shuddering at the mute malice of the demon-spawn's
mischief.

One section remained, and this was beneath a huge,
thick ash tree. "She planted my posterior 'neath the grass
of an ash!" the ghost lamented.

"A fat ash," Ivy agreed, contemplating the girth of the
tree.

Stanley sneezed as he sniffed out the precise location,
for the fine ashes beneath the tree tickled his snoot. Then
he dug down through the stratified layers of ash until he
could get a tooth on the skeletal rump.

At last Jordan's entire skeleton was heaped beneath
the parasol. Ivy arranged the pieces in order, so that the
figure lay complete on the ground. "Now what?" she asked.
"Does it just start walking, like one of the skeletons of
the gourd?"

"After four hundred years, as I said, I'm not sure,"
Jordan replied cautiously. "I've never been dead that long
before."

"Here, I brought some healing 'lixer," Ivy said. She
took out a bottle and sprinkled it over the bones. Still,
nothing happened.

"YOU see, since all my flesh is gone—" Jordan began.

"Nonsense! All it takes is concentration." And Ivy
concentrated.

Ivy, though a child, was a full Sorceress, with power
that rivaled that of any Magician in Xanth. When she
focused it, remarkable things tended to happen, such as
dragons turning tame and thyme accelerating. Now she
intensified Jordan's talent of recovery, which had already
been boosted by the healing elixir—which itself was in-
tensified by her talent. Jordan had no flesh to heal; only
the most enduring part of him remained. It seemed like
a lost cause. Yet even four hundred years could not stand
against Ivy's power. Few folk ever had occasion to per-
ceive the full extent of the magic of a Magician or Sor-
ceress, for usually the ramifications were subtle. This was
an exception.




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287

The effect was gratifying. The bones began to knit.
The leg bone connected to the thigh bone, and the arm
bone connected to the shoulder bone, and the shoulder
bone connected to the neck bone. All the bones con-
nected, and soon the skeleton was intact.

Now tendons sprouted from the bones, stringing them
together in a new way. Flesh formed on the surfaces, like
mildew growing, surrounding the bones and tendons,
thickening, turning red. Muscles developed, and organs.
The skeleton became a cadaverous body. Probably the
bones were becoming hollow, for Jordan's healing talent
did not generate flesh from nothing; it was taken from the
existing substance. But in due course, a layer of skin
formed and the starving figure lay complete, the thinnest
man in Xanth.

"It has to eat," Jordan the Ghost said. "It's too thin
to support life, so it's still a dead man."

"Then why doesn't it eat?" Ivy asked.

"Dead men don't eat. It's still too weak."

Ivy went to a nearby breadfruit tree, plucked a loaf of
bread, and took out a slice. She held this to the figure's
almost lipless mouth.

"That did it!" Jordan exclaimed. He floated through
the air toward the figure as if drawn by some vacuum.
The figure inhaled—and the ghost was sucked into the
mouth.

"Good-bye, Jordan!" Renee cried faintly, sounding sad
for this parting. And of course it was a parting, for he
was departing the world of ghosts.

Now the body was breathing. The mouth opened
slightly, and Ivy poked in the bite of bread. The mouth
closed, and the jaws slowly chewed. At first it seemed
almost too much for the teeth to bite through the soft
bread, but soon the motions strengthened as the nourish-
ment entered the body.

She fed him several pieces, and then some fruits, and
gradually the body became more animated. The sunken
eyes opened, and one arm twitched. Finally that hand
was able to lift and grasp a piece of bread and move it to
the mouth. Jordan was feeding himself!

But time was passing, and Ivy had to return to the
castle for supper, lest the grown-ups get suspicious.
"Stanley—guard!" she ordered the little dragon, indicat-
ing the strengthening body. She plucked assorted addi-
tional fruits and dumped them down in a pile for the body
to eat. Then she went into the Castle Roogna, where she
got caught up in all the make-work adults foisted off on
children, such as eating greens, brushing her teeth, look-
ing at picture books, and going to bed. She couldn't get
away to see to the important business. Angry, she kicked
at the monster under the bed, but it was smart enough to
skulk just out of reach.

First thing in the morning, she returned to the orchard.
Jordan was gone—but Stanley came frisking up and led
her to the former ghost. Jordan the man was now on his
feet and picking fruit for himself. He was still very thin,
but the healing elixir and his healing talent, as enhanced
by Ivy's own talent, had restored him remarkably. He
was now the shadow of his former barbarian self, tall and
broad-shouldered and hank-haired and big-footed, the very
outline of the model of a handsome man. He was walking
from tree to tree, taking all the fruit he could reach and
cramming it into his mouth, still ravenous.

Ivy clapped her hands with childish glee. "Jordan,
you're really alive!" she cried. Of course he had been
alive the evening before, but so thin and weak that she
really didn't think of it the same way.

"Mph sre m," he agreed through a mouthful of fruit-
cake from one of the garden's valuable crossbreed trees.
"Vut—"

"But what?"

He swallowed, clearing his mouth somewhat so he could
speak more clearly. "But Renee isn't."

Ivy looked around, spying the female ghost, who hov-
ered at the fringe of vision. "That's right. I guess you miss
her now."

"1 am glad for Jordan," Renee said faintly. "He will be
able to finish his real life. I will fade away."

"No!" Jordan cried, clearing the rest of his mouthful.
"I love you, Renee. I don't want life if it means I must




288 Crewel Lye

lose you! I'll become a ghost again!" He glanced back
toward the parasol tree, where the Knight's sword still
lay. He took a step toward it.

"Don't you dare!" Ivy said severely. "I went to a lot
of trouble to get you back alive! We'll just have to make
Renee alive, too."

"No, that is not necessary," Renee protested. "Jordan
deserves to live; I don't."

"But howT' Jordan asked Ivy, interested.

Ivy pondered. It was an awkward question, the very
type that adults favored. "I'd better ask Hugo."

"Hugo?"

"My friend at Magician Humfrey's castle. Hugo's very
smart."

"That's not what I've heard," Jordan said.

"Well, he's always smart when I'm with him."

Jordan had just experienced a demonstration of her
power and began to understand. If she thought Hugo was
smart, Hugo would be smart—for her. "Humfrey's cas-
tle—isn't that where Millie went? I remember when she
left us thirty years ago."

"Thirty-one years," Renee said. Evidently she was good
at figures, having a good one herself. Naturally these ghosts
had known Millie the Ghost before she was restored to
life.

"Millie—you mean Lacuna's mom?" Ivy asked. "She
lives in the Zombie Castle. Humfrey's castle is east."

"Yes, but that's still a long way away. It would take
a long time to go there, even if you used the gourd again."

"We'll use the mirror, silly! Come on!" And Ivy headed
toward the castle at a brisk skip.

"But if the adults see me, they'll ask questions," Jordan
pointed out.

That made Ivy pause. It was a big nuisance when peo-
ple asked questions. She was coming to understand why
Magician Humfrey discouraged it. "Okay. You stay here
and eat. And find something to wear."

"Oops," Jordan said, realizing that his clothing had not
revived with him. It seemed he had been so hungry that
he hadn't paid attention to other details.

Crewel Lye                     289

Ivy returned to the castle and went straight to the magic
mirror. "Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who's the cutest of
them all?" she asked rhetorically.

"You are, you ravishing little snippet!" the mirror re-
plied, showing the image of a kiss. It was a game they
played. As Magician Humfrey aged, he had gotten to tink-
ering with things he had not had time for in his senior
years and had fixed the various inoperative mirrors, so
that now intercastle communications were excellent. Ivy's
talent hadn't hurt, either; the mirror responded especially
well to her attention.

Ivy made a grab for the kiss, but it danced away, back
beyond the glassy surface where she couldn't get it. This
mirror was a tease. "And who's the smartest of them all?"

"Now that depends," the mirror began.

"Oh, just give me Hugo."

"I thought you were working up to that," the mirror
grumped. It flickered, and then Hugo came on.

"Hugo, I need some advice," Ivy said. "You're real
smart, aren't you?"

"I am now," he agreed warily. He had been through
this before.

"How can we bring a ghost back to life?"

"That's easy. Use a reanimation spell."

Ivy considered. "The only one of those I know of was
taken away by a ghost horse four hundred years ago."

Hugo shook his head. "Ivy, you've said some foolish
things in your day, but this is worse yet. How could you
have lost such a spell four hundred years ago? You didn't
exist then."

"Just tell me how to bring back that ghost horse," Ivy
said evenly.

"I'll have to ask my father. He's a brat now, but he
likes to show off his information." Hugo disappeared from
the mirror, which played innocuous music and ran color
patterns during the interim. Soon he returned. "He says,
quote, you idiot, all you have to do is rattle some chains,
unquote."

"Okay. Tell the brat thanks." Ivy dashed down to the
arsenal, found the heaviest chain she could carry, shook




290 Crewel Lye

the bones out of it, and dragged it out to the orchard. The
moat monster spooked as she hauled it across the draw-
bridge, for it made a loud noise on the wooden planks.

Panting from the effort, she brought the chain to Jor-
dan, who had already filled out some more. Apparently
Ivy's presence had accelerated his healing again. "Rattle
this!" she told him.

Perplexed, he obeyed. He took the chain and shook
it. The rattling noise filled the orchard, causing the trees
to avert their leaves.

In a moment there was a distant answering rattle.
"Pook!" Jordan cried, surprised and pleased. "I'd know
that sound anywhere!"

Indeed it was the ghost horse, who was eternal as long
as he wore his chains and avoided getting killed. Pook
galloped up, gave a startled neigh when he saw Jordan,
and practically knocked him down in greeting. "Yes, I'm
alive again!" Jordan said. "Did you miss me?"

Pook shrugged. Then he turned and neighed. There
was an answering neigh—and in a moment Peek, the
female ghost horse, trotted up. Trailing her was a little
colt, wearing cute little chains.

"I guess you found a way to pass the time," Jordan
remarked. "But four hundred years—just when did the
stork deliver that colt?"

"Ooo, nice!" Ivy exclaimed, fascinated by the little
ghost horse. The feeling seemed mutual.

"Of course, these things do take time," Jordan decided.
"When you're a ghost. I've had some experience that way
myself. That colt could be a century old." And Pook nod-
ded.

"I'll call you Puck!" Ivy told the ghost colt, patting his
pretty little mane.

Jordan checked Pook's chains. There were the tattered
remains of the bag of spells. He pulled it free, and two
unused white spells dropped out: a shield and a stone.
"One of these must be the reanimation spell," he ex-
claimed. "And the other—" He paused to tally them up
in his mind. "The monster-banishing-spell."

"But which is which?" Ivy asked.

Crewel Lye                     291

"We'll just have to try them both. But first we have
to find Renee's bones."

"No," Renee said timidly. "I really don't deserve—"
"Either you join me in life, or I'll rejoin you in death."

And Jordan's barbarian jaw was set so hard it was evident

he meant it.

"You don't understand," Renee demurred. "You
wouldn't like me alive. I never intended to live again."

"Well, I never intended to die for four hundred years,"
Jordan retorted. "That was the mischief of Threnody's
cruel lie, may she be forever damned! But now I'm glad
I did, because that's how I met you. I love you; I'll either
live with you or die with you."

"Come on, Renee," Ivy said persuasively. She loved
a good romance, even if there were aspects of it she had
been unable to fathom yet. "Don't be shy. I know my
father will make a place for you at Castle Roogna—"

"No! Never!" the ghost cried.

"But after all, you've been here for centuries!"

"That's different. Ghosts don't count. I could never
stay, in life," Renee protested, wringing her diaphanous
hands.

"Then we can live somewhere else," Jordan said.
"Anywhere you want. Just so long as we're together. You
want that, don't you?"

"Oh, yes! But—"

"Then it's decided," Ivy said decisively. "Show us your
bones."

Reluctantly, Renee led them to one more site—a so-
phis-tree. This looked like a solid, regular tree, but on
closer examination, it turned out to be a clever decep-
tion—an animal masquerading as a tree by standing on
its thick tail and spreading its limbs out, covered with bits
of green to emulate branches and leaves. Obviously it was
an intruder in the orchard, a weed-creature, but the effort
was so ingenious that no one had noticed for centuries,
until now. Ivy decided to pretend not to notice; if the
creature tried that hard and long to look and act like a
tree, it deserved to succeed. After all, it wasn't doing any
harm.




292 Crewel lye

Stanley sniffed out the bones and dug them up. They
were very shapely bones; obviously Renee had been a
beautiful woman, so her appearance wasn't the reason
for her reluctance to reanimate. That was fine, for, as
Jordan continued to pluck and eat fruit, he was filling out
into a muscular and handsome man. Ivy just knew they
would make a lovely couple and she was thrilled to be
able to reunite them in life. She liked the ghosts of Castle
Roogna and would be sorry to lose these two as ghosts—
but life was even better.

Jordan reached into the bag and brought out the little
white stone and shield. "These stand for life and monster-
banishment," he said. "But there's no way to tell which
is which, short of invoking one. I'll just have to guess.
At least neither one will hurt anyone."

"But—" Renee protested. "I really think you
shouldn't—"

Jordan held up the white stone. "Invoke!" he said.

There was a flash from the stone—and a pop behind
them. They glanced around. "Stanley's gone!" Ivy cried,
appalled.

Jordan looked abashed. "I forgot he was a monster,"
he said. "He was so helpful during the night. But I guess
a little monster is still a monster."

"But where is he?" Ivy demanded, peering around the
orchard.

"Don't worry—I'm sure he's all right," Jordan said.
"He must have been sent to wherever monsters live when
they're not monstering. I mean, when I ran into the black
monster-summoning-spell, it was a pretty healthy tar-
asque that appeared, and this spell is just the reverse. I'm
sure Stanley will find his way home."

"He'd better!" Ivy said, poking out her lower lip. "Or
I'll give him holy whatfor!"

Jordan held up the little white shield. "This has to be
it, by elimination. Invoke!"

Renee's bones quivered. Then the ghost was drawn to
them—and as she settled onto the pattern of bones, her
ghostly outline clarified, thickened, and became solid. In

Crewel lye                   293

a moment she was a bare, beautiful woman with flowing
black hair.

Jordan stared at her, stumbling back as if struck.
"Threnody!" he cried.

"Who?" Ivy asked, bewildered.
The woman got to her feet. She had gone through none
of the agonizing stages of restoration that Jordan had; this
spell had been quick and strong. She gazed sadly at Jor-
dan. "I tried to dissuade you, barbarian," she said. "I
warned you that you wouldn't like me alive."

"You—you substituted your bones for Renee's!" Jor-
dan cried. "You tricked me into reviving you instead of
the one I love!" Behind him, Pook snorted agreement.
Pook had never liked Threnody.

"Now how could a dead person change bones with
another?" Threnody asked with the same air of regret. "I
was always Renee—THreneeDY. I just simplified my
name, so you wouldn't know."

It was obviously true. "You deceived me—even in
death!" Jordan said. "Even as a ghost!"

"Even as a ghost," she agreed, walking to a clothing
tree and making tasteful selections from it. Ivy had never
seen a better-formed woman, not excepting her mother
Irene. Even as a female child. Ivy could appreciate how
such a figure could dazzle a man's mind. Threnody spoke
again. "That was the crudest lie of all."

Jordan's prospective joy had changed abruptly to be-
wildered horror. "But—why? You had gotten what you
wanted! Why torture me even in death?"

She sighed. "I don't suppose you could believe that I
have always loved you?"

Jordan's big fist clenched so hard the knuckle cracked.
"Don't give me any more of your lies! For once in your
foul life, tell the simple truth! Why?"

She nodded as if she had expected this. "No more lies,
Jordan. I'll just do you the favor of getting out of your
life. You're alive now; you can make a new life for your-
self. I'm sure any decent and lovely maiden would be glad
to comfort a handsome barbarian like you. You certainly
don't need anything from demon-spawn." She completed

294 Crewel Lye

her dressing and walked out of the orchard, away from
the castle.

Jordan's hurt bafflement turned to outrage. "Oh, no,
you don't! You can't destroy my love twice over and just
walk away! I promised to deliver you to Castle Roogna,
and now I will! King Dor will decide what to do with
you!" And he ran after her, grabbed her by her slender
waist, and picked her up. He had not yet recovered his
full mass and strength, but he was already a powerful
man.

"Stop that!" Threnody cried. "Put me down! I can't
go to Castle Roogna!"

"We'll see about that!" he gritted. "There's no Evil
Magician now to kill me on the way. Once my mission is
done, I'm through with you—but not before!"

She kicked and fought, but he carried her through the
orchard toward the castle, while Ivy and the three ghost
horses followed. Pook snorted approval; this was at least"
a fitting conclusion to Jordan's mission. Threnody would
at last pay the penalty for her many treacheries.

But as they approached the drawbridge, there was dust
rising from the zombie graveyard to the side. The zombies
were dragging themselves out of their graves, trying to
protect the castle. But they were too slow. Jordan reached
the bridge first and started boldly across it, despite the
woman's struggles.

Castle Roogna began to shake. There were cries from
within it as startled people reacted. Still Jordan marched
forward. The moat monster forged through the water to-
ward them, but it, too, was too late. All the castle's de-
fenses had been caught off guard by this sudden
occurrence.

The shaking got worse. The water of the moat rippled.
A stone fell from a turret and crashed to the ground.

"The castle's falling, you idiot!" Threnody screamed.
"It will kill everyone!"

Jordan stopped, amazed. "It really is!" he exclaimed.
"I thought that was just a threat!"

Threnody managed to squirm out of his grasp and get
back on her feet. "You never did know the truth from a

Crewel Lye                     295

lie!" she said and ran back across the bridge. "You were
always a fool!" She brushed past Ivy and the horses, tears
on her cheeks. No one tried to stop her.

The shuddering diminished as Threnody got away from
the castle. The threat was easing. The disinterred zombies
paused, and so did the moat monster, watching her depart.

"She sure didn't lie about that part," Ivy said, shaken
by more than the castle. "But I don't understand. Why
did she pretend to be Renee?"

"To trick me into reanimating her!" Jordan said bit-
terly. "I would never have done it if I'd known she was
the evil Threnody."

"But Renee told you not to do it," Ivy pointed out.

"She knew I'd do it anyway."

"But when she came here to die, four hundred years
ago, you had no spell. She thought you were dead to stay,
didn't she? Why did she choose to become a ghost—or
if not a ghost, why did she come here to die?"

Jordan shook his head, bewildered. "I guess I can't
make sense of it at all. If she had had any change of heart,
she could have dug up my bones herself; she knew where
they were. But she's demon-spawn; I never truly under-
stood her nature. Her mother destroyed her father, and
she destroyed me. Now she's taken Renee from me, and
left me not only desolate but branded as big a fool as a
ghost as I was in life. The cruelty other lies just goes on
and on!" And he sat on the edge of the bridge and put his
head in his hands.

Pook approached from one side, not knowing how to
comfort the man who had loved so unwisely, and even
the moat monster looked sad. The tragedy of Jordan's
first life had seemed to be beyond redemption, yet he had
redeemed it in death—only to have it eclipsed by the
tragedy of his second life.

Ivy had some idea how he felt. After all, she had just
lost Stanley Steamer. But somehow it didn't make enough
sense to satisfy her. "I'm going to ask Hugo," she an-
nounced.

Jordan did not answer. He just sat silently, gazing into
the water of the moat, his new life turned to ashes.




296 Crewel Lye

Ivy had been grounded for getting into some perfectly
innocent trouble on the way to the North Village several
days ago. This time, she knew, the trouble was not in-
nocent. Lives had been restored—and ruined. Castle
Roogna had nearly fallen. What explanation could Hugo
offer that would make any of this right? But she had to
ask.

She left the little group on the drawbridge, returned to
the castle, and hurried through the halls. No one noticed
her; they were all too upset about the mysterious shaking
of the castle. Once they realized what her part in this had
been—she quailed before a mental picture of the giant
flying hairbrush she had encountered at the Good Magi-
cian's castle. Yet that could hardly be the worst of it.
What would the other ghosts say to her after what she
had done to two of their number?

She reached the mirror and called Hugo again. "You're
the only one smart enough to figure this out, Hugo," she
said tearfully when his face appeared in the glass. "I'm
in a big awful lot of trouble!"

"But I'm not smart!" he protested, none too eager to
get involved in her trouble. It took no genius to know that
what Ivy considered little trouble was big trouble to any-
one else, and what she called big trouble was apt to be
downright dangerous.

"Yes, you are!" she insisted. Hugo was stuck for it;

he changed his mind for a smarter one.

Ivy told him what had happened, and Hugo listened
intelligently. "Why, the answer is obvious," he said as
she concluded; he explained it to her.

Ivy brightened phenomenally. "That's it!" she ex-
claimed happily. "That solves everything! Oh, thank you,
Hugo!" And she dashed out of the still-confused castle.

She returned to Jordan, who remained seated forlornly
on the bridge, in the gloomy company of the ghost horses,
the moat monster, and a stray zombie. "I know why!"
she cried.

"Because she hated me and wanted to humiliate me
yet again," Jordan mumbled.

"No! Because she truly loved you, Jordan!"

Crewel Lye                    297

Jordan looked up. "Some love!" he growled.

"Now listen, you dumb barbarian," Ivy told him se-
verely. "You don't know a thing about women!"

"On target," he agreed morosely.

"Threnody knew about Yin and Yang, right? That they
were just different sides of the same Magician?"

"She had to know," he said lugubriously.

"So she knew that all the evil that was in Yang was in
Yin, too, only it didn't show. Because the whole man is
the sum of his parts. If she married Yin, she was marrying
Yang, too—and Castle Roogna would fall before she even
got to Yin, since she had to return there in order for him
to win. And since they were the same Magician, she knew
that all those bad spells that were trying to kill you were
really from Yin as well as Yang; in fact, maybe Yin mixed
up the white spells himself, to be quite sure you'd be
killed, without King Gromden knowing why. Because that
Magician liked his evil side better, but had to do the con-
test to get Good King Gromden's approval. So the contest
really was fixed, with no way Yin could win. Threnody
knew that."

"Yes," Jordan agreed, seeing it. "And she helped them
get rid of me. Was that love?"

"Yes! Because she knew Yin-Yang would kill you all
the way dead if he realized she loved you. And he was a
Magician, a strong one, and he was going to be King no
matter how the contest turned out, so no one could stop
him. He would bum your body to ashes and scatter them
in the sea, or seal them in stones, or something, so there'd
be no chance at all for you ever to recover. And because
she loved you, she had to pretend she hated you, because
he was already suspicious and probably would have killed
you anyway; there was a lot of evil in him."

Jordan nodded, becoming interested. "Yin-Yang was
evil; surely he had nothing good for me in mind. I was
just a tool for his ambition, to be used and thrown away.
Even without Threnody, he would have had to get rid of
me so no one would know how he cheated. But Threnody
didn't have to—to make me love her, then kill me her-
self!"

298 Crewel Lye

"She didn't, not exactly," Ivy said. "She didn't know
you before you came for her, and then she tried to kill
you, but gradually, as she got to know you, she got to
love you, too. She told the truth when she said she loved
you. She had never loved any man other than her father
before, but you proved to her she was, after all, human.
Then she really had to kill you!"

"Huh?" Even the ghost horses and the moat monster
and the zombie looked perplexed at this.

Ivy realized that Hugo's clear explanation was getting
a bit garbled in translation. She concentrated her mind
and tried again. "Actually, it was Yang's evil death-spell
that killed you. Then Threnody knew he'd finish the job
if she didn't act quickly. So she cut up your body and hid
the pieces very carefully to be sure she could find them
again. She knew she could bring you back to life—after
the Magician had forgotten about you. That's why she
told that cruel lie—to save you from real death! She was
lying to the Magician when she said she hated you. She
told you the truth when she said she loved you."

"I don't know—" Jordan began doubtfully.

"Remember when you were in Threnody's body, hold-
ing the evil sword, and you couldn't tell Pook the truth?"
Ivy asked. "You lied—to fool the sword, not Pook! Well,
Threnody was in a similar situation, because Yin-Yang
was more dangerous than that black sword ever had been."

Jordan brightened, then dulled again. "But she never
did bring me back."

"Because Yang remained suspicious. Evil people are
like that; it's the good people who are too trusting. Yang
must have watched her all the time. Renee told you how
unhappy her marriage was! It must have been truly ter-
rible—because she really hated the Magician and had to
pretend she loved him. Finally she couldn't take it any
more. She realized he would never give her a chance to
return to you. Not while he lived. Not before she was an
old hag. She could do nothing about him, because his
Magician's power was much more than hers could ever
be, and also, he was the King. The moment she made any
motion to dig up your bones, he would have known, and

Crewel Lye                    299

destroyed you both in terrible fashion. So she joined you
the only way she could—in death. She loved you enough
to die for you. She hadn't known about the ghosts at
Castle Roogna."

"Yes..." Jordan said. Wishing he could believe. "But
why didn't she tell me then?"

"Two reasons. Yin-Yang knew she was dead, but didn't
know she had become a ghost; only people with horren-
dously unresolved problems become ghosts. But when
she said anything about her identity, the Magician would
recognize her and know it wasn't over and take steps to
finish it, if only by digging up your bones and burning
them. She couldn't risk that! So, to protect you as a ghost,
she lied to you again."

"But Yin-Yang didn't live forever!" Jordan protested.
"After he died, she could have told me!"

"No. You hated Threnody for what you thought she
had done to you. You would have thought it was just
another lie. You were coming to love Renee; if she told
you, all that she could expect was that you would hate
her—as you did when her identity was revealed just now.
She loved you and just wanted your love in return; her
name didn't matter to her. So she loved you as Renee,
and you loved her, and that was enough. Until you messed
it up by returning her to life. And then she couldn't tell
you, for the same reason, because you wouldn't listen,
so she just went away, heartbroken, and I guess she'll
turn herself into a skunk-cabbage or something and wilt
away."

"But Renee helped me Find my bones!"

"Because she wanted what was best for you, and life
was best. If it hadn't been for her, you wouldn't have
died before, so she helped give that life back to you. She
felt she owed it to you, to make up for the way she had
ruined a fine man. She didn't know you would bring her
back, too, and didn't know how to handle it. She had
expected you to return to life, slowly forget about her,
and find someone new. Then she would have done the
right thing at last and made up for her cruel lies."

300 Crewel Lye

Jordan considered that. "But she really didn't try very
hard to convince me."

"What use?" Ivy asked. "Your mind was closed. And
she's a proud woman. She wasn't going to beg. She never
begged in her life; she just did what she had to. So when
you rejected her—"

Jordan was stricken. "True, true! I have wronged her!"

"Well, you didn't know. You're sort of proud, too. But
now it's all right. You can go to her!"

Jordan seemed awed. "All that she's done—she did
for love of me! Even her crudest lies! I was too ready to
believe in her guilt!"

"Well, so was I," Ivy said. "Until Hugo explained it
all to me. But of course, I'm only five years old; I don't
understand about romance."

"All those centuries!" Jordan lamented. "What Renee
told me is true; she was miserable because she could not
marry her true love—who was me! I must beg her for-
giveness !" He got up and hurried in the direction Thren-
ody had gone.

Pook started to follow, then decided not to; some scenes
were better without audiences. "I guess she'll forgive him,"
Ivy said with satisfaction. "She can change her form; she
can change her mind, too." She looked around. "Oh, I've
just got to hug somebody! You!" And she hugged Puck,
the little ghost horse. "And you." She hugged Pook, and
Peek, and even the nose of the moat monster. "But not
you," she decided, encountering the zombie.

She looked toward the orchard; did she see two figures
merging behind the trees? She realized that she would not
see Jordan again after this day, for Threnody would never
enter the castle alive. Not with her curse. She might be
demon-spawned, but she had love and conscience and
surely a soul, and she didn't want the castle to fall. The
happy couple would have to go elsewhere, and that meant
Pook and his family would go, too. Ivy knew she would
be very sad about that when she got over her present
happiness.

"I suppose I'd better tell my folks about why we've
lost two ghosts and a dragon and why the castle shook,"

Crewel Lye                     301

she said to herself. She didn't relish the prospect, but it
was best to get it over with early.

She went inside. Things had settled down somewhat
now. Her mother was sitting pensively, while Baby Dolph
was fussing in his crib. "What's the matter. Mom?" Ivy
asked, willing to postpone the inevitable a little longer.

"He's So restless," Irene said. "I don't know what's
the matter. I thought it was because of the earthquake
tremor, but that's past now. I'm at my wit's end!"

Ivy studied her little brother. She had resented him
from slightly before the moment he arrived at the cabbage,
but had never really looked at him. He was an ugly thing,
sort of bald and fat and toothless and drooly, and she
couldn't see why anyone would want to pay so much
attention to him. But the story of Jordan the Ghost and
Threnody the Demon-Spawned was fresh in her mind,
and she had just had a lesson in prejudice. If Jordan had
been ready to believe the truth instead of the cruel lie told
to save him—

Suddenly Dolph reminded her of Threnody. It was a
completely incongruous impression on the physical side,
yet a profound one emotionally. Why did her helpless,
roly-poly baby brother remind her of that beautiful woman?

Well, there was one way to find out. Ivy moved closer
to the crib and concentrated, enhancing the baby's qual-
ities. "What's his talent?" she asked.

"We don't know, dear," Irene said. "Sometimes it takes
years to discover a person's magic talent, and there's no
guarantee it will be worthwhile." Irene was really worried
about that. Ivy saw. She didn't want any child of hers to
have a poor talent.

"He's trying to do his magic," Ivy declared, trusting
her little-girl intuition. "But he can't quite do it yet, so
he's frustrated." Ivy was something of an expert on frus-
tration.

Irene smiled, not taking her seriously. Adults could be
especially annoying that way. "Whatever you say, dear."

Ivy continued her concentration, knowing that some-
thing was bound to show. It always did when she willed
it so. She was sure there was some reason Dolph reminded

302 Crewel Lye

her of Threnody, and sure she could make this apparent
if she just intensified it enough.

Suddenly there was a wolf cub in the crib. "Say, look
at that!" Ivy exclaimed, pleased.
Irene looked—and screamed.

In a moment Daddy King Dor and half the personnel
of the castle were in the room. They were all edgy because
of the earthquake—maybe it should be left at that?—but
it was too late. Startled by the scream, Dolph had changed
back into a baby. "Aw, you missed it," Ivy said petu-
lantly. "Dolph's a changer."

Irene calmed down enough to pay attention. "A what?"
"Like Threnody. Only he's fast. He does it in an in-
stant, not an hour. He—"
"Who?"

"Threnody. That's a long story." Ivy looked again at
the baby, who was now peacefully sleeping, satisfied with
his effort. Dolph no longer looked as disgusting. "Maybe
Dolph has demon blood in him."

"Not from my side of the family!" Irene snapped.
"I wonder if he can diffuse?" Ivy mused.
"Instant form-changing?" King Dor asked. "If he's a
werewolf, that's one thing, a minor talent. If he can change
instantly to any form, that's another."

"Oh, sure, it's any form," Ivy said with certainty. "He
just needs a little help to get it started. He's only a baby,
you know."

Dor picked her up. "I hadn't realized that," he said
with a straight face, teasing her in the nice way daddies
had. "I thought perhaps he was an adult, like you."

"Oh, shut up. Daddy," she said, kissing him on the
cheek.

Irene exchanged a glance with her daughter. "Any form?
Changing himself? That's Magician-caliber talent!"

"At least," Ivy agreed. She had discovered it, so now
it was to her credit, and the greater the talent was, the
better.

After that the discussion became animated, and Ivy
was left out of it. But she didn't mind that, either. She
could handle a few more days of neglect, until the matter

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303

of the ghosts blew over. It might be interesting having a
brother who could become any creature in an instant. She
could show him how to reach the high cookie jar by chang-
ing into a snail and crawling up the wall, so they would
never starve between meals. Or how to become a little
dragon, and breathe fire to toast marshmallows and give
people hotfoots. The possibilities were endless!
Yes, life was bound to get more interesting soon.

Author's Note

In the last Xanth novel. Dragon on a Pedestal,
I used a number of puns contributed by fans, listing the
credits at the end, and suggested that this was punnish-
ment enough. But before that novel was published, fans
had sent many more puns. Some sent whole pages of
them—a veritable Pundora's Box. I used about fifty of
those suggestions and give due credit here. But this re-
sulted in such a concentration of puns in the first chapter
that the publisher suffered pundigestion. You see, I have
many young readers, who write to me in much greater
numbers than the older ones do, but they are really not
the largest audience for Xanth. Despite appearances, Xanth
is intended mostly for adults, which may be why the kids
like it. The question was whether that plethora of puns
would alienate more people than it pleased. So—that
chapter was deleted, because it isn't good form to annoy
more readers than strictly necessary, even in Xanth. The
present version of the novel begins with what was origi-
nally Chapter 2.

But for those of you who can't live without knowing
what was in it, here is a summary of the missing chapter.
On the eve of her baby brother's arrival. Ivy went to visit

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305

her Grandfather Trent, along with Grundy and Stanley.
She got them all into enormous mischief, but the timely
arrival of a package from her pun-pal Rapunzel helped
them survive it, along with Tangleman, who is a tangle
tree transformed into a man.

Now, though most of these puns have been deleted,
I'm leaving their credits as originally listed so you folk
who sent them in will know they really were there. This
may seem peculiar—but what did you expect from Xanth?
And those of you who remain out there, bursting with
puns—stifle them, because there's only so much of this
nonsense anyone can take. By the time Lye burns into
print, I should have completed the following Xanth novel,
and plans are inchoate beyond that, so any puns you might
send are apt to be wasted anyway.

Are you ready? Here are the credits, real and potential,
for Lye, and if there is some overlap, it is because a given
pun may have been suggested by more than one person.
David Branson suggested deadstock, pun-pal, crab-grass,
fris-bees, demon-stration (which I modified for my own
sinister purpose), baseball bat, the night mare being out
other gourd, air waves, outcry, and worry wart. Andrea
DeSimone and Laura T. Maberry collaborated to suggest
sound of mind, shadow of a doubt, clinging vines, cat o'
nine tails, scaredy cat, dumb bells, screaming meanies,
copperhead snake, snake-eyes, and kitty hawk. Martin
Musick suggested the dark lantern, kitty hawk, head-
stone, bear witness, and worry wart. As you can see, I
used three of his in a bunch, and there's a reason. I had
a request from a fan who was organizing a Dungeons and
Dragons type game using a Xanth setting: could I provide
some challenges for entry into the Good Magician's castle
that hadn't already been published, since all the game-
players had read all the Xanths already? So I listed the
ones used in Dragon, which had not yet been published,
and then sat down and made notes for the equivalent
scene in Lye, which novel I hadn't even started. I have
never-failing inspiration, which makes me virtually unique
among writers, but this was a strain. So I checked Mr.
Mustek's list of about ten notions, selected three, and

built my scene around them; then I sent off the infor-
mation to the fan and later wrote that scene when I came
to it in the novel. I hope they had a successful D&D game;

I never heard. Most fan-puns I include as a courtesy; in
this case, they were a real help.

But back to work here. Greg Burns suggested the gold
fish, silver fish, hedge hog, hem lock, horsetail, horse
chestnut, honey comb, and golden rod. Dave Schwartz
'had the living room; David Miles the seeing-eye dogwood
tree; Katherine A. Lowe the bum steer; and Bryce Cock-
son suggested the catch-your-breath. Karen Vinyard sug-
gested that a girl be turned into a tree to be a companion
for Justin Tree; I thought it was a good idea, but didn't
manage to fit it in this time. Diane Le Roux inquired why
Justin Tree didn't become a man again in the Time of No
Magic, so that is explained here. She also asked a number
of awkward questions about the centaurs' aging rate—
obviously it is the same as the rate for human beings,
contrary to what Bink believed in Xanth 1—and how come
the Siren could look at the Gorgon in Xanth 2 and not in
Xanth 6? Well, I think that when the Gorgon was young,
she only stoned male creatures, but when she matured,
so did her talent, so she stoned everyone. After all, we
don't want any sexism here; everyone should suffer alike.
And other awkward questions that, um—look, Diane, I'm
awfully busy at the moment, trying to type a manuscript,
so if you'll just go on to the next author in line and ask
him or her some awkward questions instead, that's a good

girl...

Michael Saul, also focusing on the Gorgon, asks how

Dor could see her wink, in Xanth 3, when her face was
invisible. Ah, Michael, see that line over there that Diane
is standing in? Just take your place behind her, and don't
shove. (And I think I'd better wrap this up and get out
of here before those fans reach the head of that next line
and spring those questions on that next author. I wonder
who he is? Let's see, if it's alphabetical... that must be
Poul Anderson of the Society for Creative Anachron-
isms—you know, the folk who dress up in armor and
authentic medieval swords. Yes, I'd definitely better get




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307

out of here!) (Then again, maybe I should shunt those
fans to the author on the other side. That looks like Isaac
Asimov, whose Foundation's Edge is, at this writing, just
about to blast Xanth 7 off the bestseller lists. But his line
is so long that my fans will never reach the head of it.
Well, now...)

Terry Cook suggested that King Trent turn a tangle
tree into a person. Keith Helgason suggested both Ivy's
talent and Dolph's talent, after I had worked them out
myself, but before the novels were published; evidently
great minds work in similar ways. Richard Rails suggested
the leather-strip body armor for the warrior; that's not a
pun but a useful device. Penny Jacob suggested the dirty
mind, after analyzing her father's nature. Charles Cohen
suggested that I include elves in Xanth, and it did seem
to be about time for them. Chris McVetta described the
contact lens bush. Ginger Gibson suggested Xantha Claus.
I regret I was not imaginative enough to fit him in here,
but what do you expect from someone named Pier Xan-
thony? And perhaps I should catch up on an overdue
credit: I borrowed the name of a fan in Estonia, Martin
Roogna, to use for Castle Roogna, way back when. Mr.
Roogna says he's not sure he has ancestry quite like that,
but who knows?

So much for the credits; let me ramble on just a bit
more before I meander off to my next novel. Xanth has
been quite successful as a series, making all the bestseller
lists. It seems that ninety-nine percent of its readers love
it; the other one percent review it, accusing me of things
like reveling in sexism and execrable puns. However,
Patchen Review did say: "Hostility from serious review-
ers to Anthony is out of all proportion; perhaps it stems
more from jealousy than lit crit." I do work hard at what
I do; a storm came up and splattered water through the
cracks in my study while I was typing Lye, so I had to
prop an umbrella over my desk to keep the page dry,
rather than interrupt my schedule. That happened to be
the scene in which Jordan is recovering from getting
stoned. No, I never get stoned myself, pun or no pun,

and that's no He; I don't believe in Zonking out my mind
for anything short of a medical emergency.

I've been writing about fifty letters a month, mostly
answering Xanth fan mail, and that interferes with my
paying writing, so I'd like to cut it down. Let me address
here some of the questions my fans commonly ask me,
so you won't have to write to inquire. Such as:

What other books are similar to Xanth? Well, none,
really; I seem to have the execrable pun fantasy market
to myself. But though 1 have not read Asprin's Myth
series, I have met the author and understand his puns are
almost as bad as mine, so you might try his Myth Con-
ceptions or others and see for yourself. There's also quite
a bit of humor in Adams' Hitchhiker's Guide series. If
you like candy landscapes and are truly young at heart—
in the four- to eight-year-old range, I'd say—try Gruelle's
Raggedy Ann series. Moving up from there, Baum's Oz.
books are good, and Alexander's Chronicles of Prydain.
Eddings' Belgariad seems closest in tone and competence
to Xanth, but without the puns; you should like it. Then
there is Hambly's Darwath trilogy, and McCaffrey's Pern
series. My daughter Cheryl also recommends the Doctor
Who books; I don't, but Cheryl is thirteen and I'm forty-
nine, so she may know better than I do. After that you're
ready for the hard stuff; you can safely sample anything
put out by this publisher, and proceed with caution to the
offerings of other publishers. Along the way, do try the
Elf quest comics by the Pini couple; there seems to be a
fair overlap in readers between Xanth and the Elves, and
these are not cheap or inferior offerings.

Why don't I write more novels featuring Dor and Irene
as teenagers, or King Trent, or Bink, or the centaurs,
etc.? Every fan seems to have his favorite character and
would like to see a series of novels centering on that one,
forever unchanging. I refuse to do this, because in Xanth,
as in Mundania, life is not a static thing. It keeps moving
into new territory. I'm not a formula writer; I like each
story to be different and original within the limits of the
larger framework. So new characters constantly appear,
and old ones gracefully fade out. That's just the way it




308                     Crewel Lye

has to be, folks. Xanth has a few constants, such as the
geography, the puns, the magic, and the struggle to get
into the Good Magician's castle; usually there is a serious
romance, and the conception, organization, and literacy
are better than the critics choose to perceive. Beyond
that, anything can happen.

"Dear Mr. Anthony, I'm 13 years old and I want to
become a writer..." This is a direct quote from a letter
I received today, as I was typing this Author's Note, and
it is typical of a number of requests I receive. A high
percentage of my fans want to be writers, so they ask me
for advice. That's sensible, and I'm not disparaging this
approach, but it's a hellish thing to answer. I'll try to
digest it into a nutshell. First, catch your rabbit. That is,
read a lot, become familiar with your subject, leam your
syntax and spelling, and LEARN TO TYPE. Editors are
a peculiar breed; they don't know how to read a hand-
written manuscript. Go to the library and read a good
book on the subject of writing, such as one by Jack Wood-
ford, and pay attention to what it says. Then write, re-
write, re-rewrite, and revise until it's the best you can
do. Get a copy of Writer's Market or similar, find several
good prospects, and ship your manuscript to the one that
appeals to you most. In the genres of fantasy and science
fiction, Del Rey Books will consider your manuscript.

Good luck, you fool; the odds are still a hundred to
one against you. It took me eight years of trying to make
my first sale, and I was twenty-eight years old at the time.
If you are better than I am, you may do it faster. If your
interest is easy money, be advised that the average writ-
er's earnings from writing put him somewhere below the
poverty level; even if you are successful, you will prob-
ably be lean and hungry. (Now do you see why I don't
like to answer this question? I really don't like reducing
thirteen-year-old girls to tears, and no part of this is a
joke.) Oh, sure—I'm not starving, any more. But I got
lucky. You can count on the fingers of one foot the con-
temporary fantasy writers who are more successful than
I am. But it did take time and luck.

This leads into my most important advice: make sure

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309

you have some other source of money while you're trying
to write, such as a working spouse, so that you don't
starve. My wife worked for several years before and after
I made my first sale; otherwise 1 could not have done it.
Even so, it was a narrow squeak. Talent, if you have it,
is only one of a number of requirements for eventual
success; you have to be ready to absorb a fair amount of
grief along the way.

Another typical question: will I autograph thirty-five
copies of my books if they are sent to me? Sigh; I'd really
rather not. Even one book is a chore to handle and reship
and costs me more in working time than the book is worth.
I prefer to have my readers understand what I'm saying,
rather than to dote on a confounded signature scrawl. I'll
sign copies at conventions (lots of luck; as a rule, I don't
attend conventions) and bookstores; otherwise, please

leave me alone.

Will I dedicate a book to a fan? No; There are simply
too many fans. But I am dedicating this paragraph to Alan
Carpenter and his sister Karen.

And finally: Will there be another Xanth novel, and
what's it ail about? Yes, there will be; more puns are
already piling in for it, the pesky things. It's titled Golem
in the Gears, and it's about Grundy the Golem, who rides
the monster under the bed on his quest to find the little
lost dragon for Ivy, and how he finds true love and laugh-
ter with the lovely, lonely, long-locked Rapunzel, the dis-
tant descendant of Jordan the Barbarian and Bluebell Elf.
Stop! Stop! I'll never get the thing written if sanity doesn't
return soon!

About the Author

Piers Anthony lives near the North Village ofXanth. He and his
wife, Carol, recently arranged to buy pan of the Gap Chasm, but
hostile magic intervened, and long-forgotten mundane reversion
clauses interfered with all but a fragment of it. His daughter Penny
still rides the night mare, but his daughter Cheryl now associates
with elves instead of ogres.

Cruet Lye is the eighth Xanth novel smuggled into Mundania.
The first one, A Spelt for Chameleon, won the August Derleth Fan-
tasy Award as the best novel for the year 1977. The fifth, sixth, and
seventh Xanth novels made the New York Times bestseller list, the
last also peaking at number one on both the B. Dalton and Wal-
denbooks bestseller lists. Of course no one in'Xanth pays attention
to such things, but Mundania is a strange place.