The Color Of Her Panties (7 page)

Of course that meant that there was no more for the ticks to eat, and most of them died.  That was one reason they were called luna-ticks, they were crazy.

But how had the tick come here?  Her eyes flicked to the sloping side of the impromptu tent, but there was no hole there.  So it hadn't dropped in from outside.  Since luna-ticks couldn't fly, it must have been thrown there.

It was not true that ogres always blundered noisily when they moved, they could act quickly and silently when they had to.  They seldom had to, as it was normally easiest simply to bash something into oblivion.

But Okra, being the least of ogres, had learned more of silence than was useful.  Her hand went soundlessly to her knapsack beside her and her fingers closed about the handle of her skinning knife.  But she didn't stab the tick; that was a minor pest.

She wanted to be ready for the major one she knew had to be near.

Then, carefully, she turned her head.  There was an awful figure standing over Mela's still form.  There was the smell of fresh blood.

She had thought it was from the tick, but now she knew better.

Okra recognized the figure.  It was a geek.  They were lesser humanoid monsters, smaller and weaker than ogres or trolls, but they made up for it by being nastier in personality.  No geek was ever up to any good, that was in the big book of monster rules.

Okra's arm moved.  She threw the knife at the geek.  But the geek, with the evil cunning of its kind, turned to flee the blade.  He was too slow; the steel of it buried itself in his back.  But of course he didn't die; geeks had no hearts, so stabbing one in the heart wasn't properly effective.  But the puncture did cause some discomfort, and the creature fell out of the tent.

Okra leaped to her feet to pursue him, for if she didn't finish him off he would only return for more mischief.  She strode out of the tent, and paused in dismay.  There was a slew and a half of geeks climbing all over her oxblood boat, and luna-ticks were trying to suck the ox blood from it.

Outraged, Okra advanced on them.  She had forgotten to recover her knife, but her fists would do.  “You ridiculous geeks, what are you doing on my boat?” she demanded.

They looked at her.  “We want to talk you into coming with us, of course,” one said.  Geeks were not the smartest of creatures; in fact some were rumored to be almost as stupid as ogres.  So it didn't occur to them not to answer a question.  “Once we have you, we will tie you up and hit you, for no reason at all, until your willpower is gone and we can start work on your won't power.  When you finally give us the pleasure of dying, we will feed your carcass to our hungriest luna-ticks.“ He had an oily, stinky voice and the smell of a dung beetle; those were his better aspects.

“But you geeks don't know how to row a boat,” Okra protested, for the moment being almost as stupid as they.

It was expected of an ogre, after all.

“We will make you row it to our hideout, where there are many more of us.  We will take the merwoman along too; she looks luscious enough to give us some pleasure before we take all her blood.”

Okra didn't know quite what he meant by that, but was sure it wasn't anything nice.  She had heard enough; it was time to act.  So she waded in, forming her best emulation of ham fists and knocking geeks every which way.  She was the smallest and weakest of ogres, but these were only geeks.  Soon she had scattered them to a suitable degree; they would not bother her for a while.

Then she picked up her knife and returned to the tent to check on Mela.

The geek had set several ticks on her, and they were already gorging.

There were scarlet ribbons of blood on her face, hands, and breasts.  The worst of it was that she remained asleep; the bites of the ticks were painless, so Mela didn't even know how she was being drained.

“Mela, wake up!” Okra said urgently.

Now the merwoman woke.  She felt the ticks on her body, looked down at them, and exclaimed “Yeeeech!!!!“

Okra was startled.  She had never before heard a fourpoint exclamation, but the exclamation points were definitely there, just like little clubs.  Then she got into action, pulling the ticks off Mela and squishing them with blows of her mini-ham fists.

Then Okra donned her knapsack and led Mela out.  The merwoman remained weak and dizzy, having expended much of her remaining store of energy in the production of that excellent exclamation.  She would need further attention, but first they had to get to a safer place.

Mela blinked as she stepped out and looked around.

“Ek,“ she said, managing a quarter point scream that was hardly audible.

“What are those things doing draped across the branches of trees, and with their heads rammed through knotholes, and with their feet sticking up from the mudbank?“

“Those are geeks,” Okra explained.  “I asked them to get out of our way.”

“Oh.” Then Mela's eyes fastened weakly on the boat.

“Eek.” That scream was a little better formed and more emphatic than the last, but still not in the same universe as the first exclamation.

Okra picked up the boat and shook it, dumping the luna-ticks into the water.  Mela relaxed.

They left the dangerous bay behind them, going out onto deep water.

There was no sign of Fracto, fortunately; the late afternoon was beautiful.

Okra shipped the oars and dug in her knapsack for her medical kit.  This was yet another unogreish artifact she had picked up; most ogres took no note of pain and less of injury.  She dabbed at the tick bites with unguent, but didn't accomplish much.  Mela had lost too much blood.

Even the twin firewater opals she wore on the chain around her neck looked listless.

So Okra did the best thing she could think of:  she rowed back to the island.  There she avoided the sand trap and hauled Mela to the hot pool and washed her off.  Then Mela began to revive, for a hot bath had a magical effect on any woman.  Her listless straw hanks of hair began to turn to golden tresses, which turned a pretty green under the water.

Okra found a timely thyme plant, and a medicinal mint herb.  She dipped them in a mug of the hot water, concocting first one tea and then two teas.  She gave these to Mela to drink, and these teased her into further improvement.  Then Okra set her on pillows and sang ogreish songs until Mela faded away to sleep.  Unfortunately the only one she could remember was “Happy Birthday.”

A rare blue moon came up.  Okra admired its color; this was the first time she had seen this hue on the moon.  She wished she could get some blue cheese from it, but couldn't reach that high.  Then she slept, especially lightly, ready to wake at any sign of trouble.

In the morning Mela felt better, but Okra felt worse.

She was hardly able to get into the boat to resume rowing.

Yet she wasn't wheezing.  What was the matter with her?

“Let me check this,” Mela said.  “Take off your knapsack.” She helped Okra remove it.  “Ha!  I thought so. There's a tick on you.”

Indeed, the tick was on Okra's back, hidden by the knapsack, which she had not removed overnight.  It must have crawled into the knapsack while Okra was dealing with the geeks, then gotten on her while she slept.

Mela took pleasure in drowning the tick in the hot pool.

Then she took care of Okra, the way Okra had taken care of her, and by the end of the day Okra was feeling better.

They had a meal of fresh coconut cocoa, breadfruit, and a variety of butters from beach buttercups.

The following morning Okra rowed them back across to the western shore.

Mela used her opals as searchlights to find a safe path that would guide them across a mountain of sand dunes and down into a huge cave with magic springs, an underground stream, and a colony of freshwater merfolk.  She had a little manual in her invisible purse that described the locations of the various merfolk tribes, and there was supposed to be such a colony here.

For she depended on these cousin creatures to give her directions to reach the castle of the Good Magician.  The freshwater folk had little association with the saltwater folk, but merfolk were bound to support merfolk.

However, there were details that Mela's manual didn't mention.  After topping several sandy dunes, they stopped by the pathside in the shade of a mixed forest of beach umbrella trees, bagpipe bushes, clove trees, and ladyfinger and palm trees.  The umbrella provided shade, the bagpipes played skitly music, and the ladyfingers made delicate gestures that caused the palms to sweat.  Okra's own palms were sweating, for she was carrying her oxblood boat and the higher they climbed, the heavier it got.  That was part of the magic of heights, of course:  they made things heavier.

They found a health spa spring and drank from it.  Then the path became narrow, and they had to leave the boat at the spring and follow the winding rocky magic path as it became a white marble chip path.  They reached a charming antique garden, where they settled down to rest.

Mela could not resist plucking a silvery platina lace shawl from a nearby Spanish shawl bush, and Okra nibbled bits and pieces from the pink peppermint candytuft tree.  It seemed that they had lost any cares they had ever had, and were now carefree.

Mela knew a song, which she taught Okra:  “The Saga of the Sleeping Dragon.“ The sun seemed to slow its journey overhead, listening.  Then they saw thyme plants growing near, and realized that the presence of a number of these could slow time here and make the day longer.  It wasn't just their imagination.  They could relax here as long as they wanted, and only a little time would pass outside the thyme garden.

But soon they moved on along the path, realizing that the slowed time was also a good way to get more rapidly where they were going.  They walked on through the glorious colors, symmetries, music, tastes, smells, and feelings of this region.  It appealed to all their senses.

“Ahhh, ohhh,” Mela sighed as they came upon a crystal rock garden filled with sweetly scented white rock roses, tiny paper narcissi, and softly baa-aa-aaing white phlox.  Even Okra, untrained as she was in the appreciation of loveliness, was rapidly learning it.  A small crystal spring bubbled and sang from the top of the miniature crystal mountain to tumble down, down the little crags into a crystal pool below.  It was perfect except for one small detail:  the small frozen figure of a young human woman encased in a large block of crystal that was being used to prop open the door of a garden shed.

They entered the shed, which turned out to be a cave with dusky recesses.  They gazed at the figure.  She was a fairly pretty creature, wearing pale water-washed aqua blue chiffon dress and golden filigree sandals.

“I don't like the look of this at all,” Mela whispered, grabbing nervously at Okra's arm and shivering.  “Suppose you and I also fall into that crystal and remain here as prisoners of thyme forever?  We must hurry away from here!“

“But what about that poor trapped girl?” Okra asked. “Is it right to leave her here?”

Mela frowned.  “You would have to think of that!  No, it's not right.  We shall have to try to help her.”

Mela lifted her two firewater opals and approached the crystal.  Watery fire shot out and bathed the block.  It shimmered, and its corners melted, but the girl inside remained frozen.  The opals were not strong enough for this job.

“Maybe I can carve her out,” Okra said.  She drew her knife and attacked the crystal.  Fragments flaked off and fell to the floor.  But soon the knife dulled, and the main bulk of the crystal remained.

“Maybe my siren song can do it,” Mela said.  She opened her mouth and sang her lovely, weird melody.  The crystal shimmered, and rainbow glints of light radiated from it, but it did not fracture or dissolve.

Mela gave up.  “Maybe your voice can do it,” she said.

“Try singing ogre loud.”

Okra opened her mouth.  A strange feeling came over her.  She sang a note, and then a higher note, and then more higher notes in a stair-step pattern.  The notes rose to high C, and above, until they disappeared through the roof and could be heard no more.  There was silence-but Okra was still singing.

“That's your magic talent!” Mela exclaimed.  “You have an ultrasonic voice!”

The crystal block shivered and cracked.  Suddenly it burst apart, and the young woman stood there, free, shaking her head and blinking her eyes.

But now the heavy stone door to the garden shed was closing, having lost its doorstop.  “Get out!” Mela cried, alarmed.

The young woman merely shook her head, confused.

Okra acted.  She charged through, picked up the girl, and carried her out before the door shut them in.  Mela followed her out.  The three of them stood breathing hard as the door crunched into place behind them.

Okra set the young woman down.  “What's your name?” Mela asked her.

The young woman took a breath, and at her bosom the material of her dress shimmered into a silvery Aegean blue green which exactly matched her pale jade green hair and aqua green eyes.  “Ida, don't-”

“Ida?” Mela asked.

“Know,” she finished.

“Oh.” The merwoman considered.  “Well, let's just call you Ida, then.  I am Mela Merwoman, and this is Okra Ogress.  We just rescued you from a cruel imprisonment.

“H-hello,” Ida said.  “Thank you.”

“Now we must learn all about you,” Mela said.  “So we can help you. Where are you going?”

Ida shook her head.  “Going?” she asked blankly.

“Well, then, where have you been?”

Ida spread her hands.  “I'm not sure.”

Mela looked at Okra.  “I think we have a problem.”

But Okra had an idea.  “Maybe she wants to go to see the Good Magician, just as we do, to get her life straight.”

“Is that the case?” Mela inquired.

“Yes, I think so.  If I can find the way.”

Mela smiled.  “As it happens, we are in the process of finding the way. So you can come with us, and the Good Magician will know what to do.”

Ida nodded.  “Yes, I'd like that.”

“But the path is closed off now,” Okra pointed out.

“The door closed when we took out the block.  Now we can't reach your merfolk cousins and get directions.”